High Hopes
by Madders Ahatter
Summary: In this sequel to Terror Firma Sam finds that the seemingly simple assignment of getting a young girl into the Olympic ski squad is actually fraught with hidden dangers. Meanwhile, Al has problems with an exwife and a current lover. [Story 2 of 5]
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

Smiles. Laughter. Congratulatory slaps on the back. Another job well done. General celebrations of a happy ending. Sam Beckett knew all about this scene. It was one he had left behind many times. And as Bill and Cat embraced him now, he felt the familiar tingle that meant that at any moment he would be Leaping again.

He was responsible for the happy ending, his efforts had ensured it, and for once he'd been allowed to sit back and savor some of the fruits of his not inconsiderable labors. He'd been rewarded by Whoever or Whatever controlled his Leaping, given some time to enjoy himself with friends made, and regain his strength.

A little "R and R".

He felt content, and profoundly grateful.

But now, he had no more time for looking backwards. With a last wistful farewell glance at the Donahue family, he surrendered himself to the limbo of blue haze that transported him to his next Leap. He began looking forward, to discover who he would become in this latest Leap, where and when he was 'landing' and most importantly, why…

'Landing' was almost right, for he Leaped-in in mid air, the body he'd invaded rigid, leaning forwards at a sharp, precise angle.

He was sailing, wind whistling in his/someone's face, taking his breath away.

It was cold. Bright. White.

There was a strong smell of pine.

He was wearing goggles, a knitted hat. He had on a pair of tight fitting black trousers, a white polo neck jumper and a thick knitted red sweater. Boots strapped onto long straight aluminum skis. He was holding, in gloved hands, poles that ended in a circle quartered by a cross and centered with a sharp point. Atop his sweater was a white bib, bearing the number 25 in large black numerals.

Then he connected sharply with thick crisp snow, and struggled to keep to his feet as he careered headlong down the steep slope of a mountain, which seemed to stretch to infinity below him.

He swerved to left and right, trying frantically to dodge red and blue flags on double poles placed in his path – slalom that was the word! He was in the middle of some sort of skiing competition.

Except as far as he couldn't remember, Dr Samuel Beckett had never learned how to ski!

As he hurtled drunkenly towards the distant finish line, fine snow spraying around him like the bow wave of a liner slicing through the ocean, it was at once both exhilarating and utterly terrifying.

He opened his mouth wide, took a deep breath and yelled:

"Ooooooooooh, boo-oooyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy"


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

Spectators, sporting dumbfounded expressions, straddled the course as he approached his destination. He gestured wildly and screamed at them to get out of his path, as he weaved this way and that, amazed that he was still upright and not at all sure how much longer he could maintain his vertical status. The speed, coupled with the high altitude and thin air, had a giddying effect.

'Where the hell are the brakes on these things?' he wondered desperately, as he rapidly ran out of road – and options.

In the absence of any experience or training in the skills of skiing to call upon, he resorted to what he **did **know – applying his knowledge of physical laws such as gravity and momentum and cause and effect. He shifted his body weight to counter the downward thrust, and so decelerate. Then he twisted sideways, trying to make his skis bite into the snow, to grip the mountain, at the same time digging in with his poles.

It almost worked.

But his timing was just a little off. He struck the last marker with the tip of his left ski and it flipped him off balance, sending him reeling, rolling over and over until he finally came to rest sprawled face down in a jumble of limbs and skis.

For a long moment he lay still.

Dazed.

Trying to work out which way was up.

Digging his fingers in and grabbing fistfuls of snow as if to confirm that he was really grounded at last. The roller-coaster ride was over, and all he had to do now was wait for his stomach to catch up with the rest of him. As far as he could tell, he'd left it somewhere halfway up the mountain.

He felt like the Pope, kissing the tarmac of some foreign airport runway.

He heard the race commentator announce loudly to all:

"Skier 25 is down. Skier 25 is down. Clear the course, please."

Then Sam began checking himself over bit-by-bit, moving each joint tentatively a fraction at a time, to see if he had sustained any injury. He felt certain that he ought to have done. He found himself parodying a famous ditty under his breath as each part of his frame checked out okay:

"The toe bone's still connected to the foot bone, the foot bone's still connected to the ankle bone, the ankle bone's still connected to the …"

While he was thus engaged, a crowd was gathering around him, also wondering if he was hurt, and if so, how badly. Two young men in similar garb to his own bent down and cautiously detached his skis from his boots, then divested him of his gloves and slipped the loops of his pole straps gently over his wrists, removing the encumbrances. A third relieved him of his hat and goggles.

Several voices bombarded him with questions:

- "Are you all right, pal?"

- "Where does it hurt?"

- "Can you feel your feet?"

- "Do you need any help?"

His bemused expression must have been further cause for concern.

Sam allowed them to help him turn over and sit up, dusting the powdery snow off his clothes. He nodded to one; a thumbs up to a second; "no bones broken, thanks." to another.

His detailed self-examination revealed that he had nothing more to show for his tumble than a couple of superficial bruises and a twisted wrist that was unlikely to trouble him for long. The gravest wound had been to his dignity. His guardian angel was evidently working overtime again.

At this point an older man, around mid-thirties Sam judged, joined the group, bending over him. Unlike the others, his face was not registering concern. He was glowering. He too was dressed in ski pants, but he had on a black parka instead of the sweater and white bib which constituted the standard uniform.

Hank Montgomery was tall and imposing. Not exactly a giant as such, but he had a presence about him. His bearing commanded respect. You didn't argue with this guy unless you were **very **sure of your facts. Sam wasn't sure of anything at all as yet. As the fair, bearded head leant forward over him – invading his personal space – Sam found himself retreating, and ended up lying back again, propped up on his elbows.

'What now?' he wondered. 'What have I got into this time?'

The intimidating man launched into a tirade:

"Who in the hell do you think you are, pulling a crazy stunt like that? What did you think you were playing at? Your name's **not **Mad Dog Buek, you know!"

'Isn't it?' thought Sam. 'That's a lot of help. Now try telling me something else I don't know, like what on earth my name _is_.'

Montgomery was still railing at him:

"Haven't you learnt **any**thing at all? Don't you **ever** listen? You don't **ever** take unnecessary risks like that, you hear me?"

Sam nodded, head bowed meekly, looking contrite. Although from where he was sitting, any risks he may or may not have taken had been _extremely _necessary ones.

"Have I just been wasting my time on you these past couple of years, B-J?" Hank snorted, "Lan' sakes, you came down that hill like you'd never set foot on a pair of skis in your life before. No style, no form, no control. A complete novice." He made a dismissive gesture with his arms, completely exasperated.

'You noticed?' thought Sam, 'How very perceptive of you.'

"I s'pose you realise you've blown **any** chance you may have had of making the team?" the guru berated him.

'Thank God for that!' thought Sam, still amazed that he'd survived his recent adventure more or less unscathed. Aloud, he muttered a humble "Sorry, Coach." hazarding an inspired guess as to who it was giving him a hard time. "I completely lost it back there. My mind went totally blank. I don't know what came over me. I must have looked a real klutz, but I wasn't goofing around, honest." As usual, this Leap hadn't gotten off to a very good start.

His sincerity must have sounded convincing. The tall man backed off a little, both verbally and physically.

"You ain't sick, are ya, B-J?" Coach Montgomery's tone mellowed considerably. Now, he looked concerned. "I guess I have been pushing you kinda hard lately." He paused, and then looked at Sam as if for the first time. "Did ya hurt yourself?"

Sam looked at all the proficient skiers around him, and the peak of the mountain towering up to the sky and looming menacingly over him. He was in no hurry to go for an encore, so he decided it would be prudent to be economical with the truth.

"Nothing serious, but I think I might have sprained my wrist." He held it supportively in the palm of his other hand and gave an exaggerated wince for effect as the Coach took a look at his 'injury'. That should be enough to keep his options open 'til he found out what he had to do. Maybe it would at least buy him some time.

Suddenly, a young girl pushed her way through the crowd which still hemmed him in, and threw herself on top of him, sobbing. She looked to be about 16 years old, and was slight of frame, but she still managed to knock the wind out of him, crushing him in a bear hug as she smothered him in kisses.

She had a round baby-face, pale complexion, contrasting with her thick ginger hair – tied in bunches high on each side of her head – and mass of freckles. Her eyes were the clearest, brightest green. She had delicate features; a button nose, small mouth, dimpled cheeks, a very pert expression.

'Cute kid, but a bit intense' thought Sam, as he tried to catch his breath between her frantic kisses. He was piecing together clues about 'himself' too. He now guessed that this skier he'd become – what had the Coach called him? Beejay? What sort of a name was that? – was also a teenager, and almost certainly this ebullient girl's boyfriend. Definitely not her brother, that was for sure, not judging by the passion of her embrace. Hopefully, her adoration meant that he was not some geeky kid with terminal acne.

She was professing her love for him now, gushingly, repeatedly, between hugs and yet more kisses.

"Oh, Bobby-Joe, I love you, I love you, I love you …."

Sam was both embarrassed and uncomfortable, unable to disengage himself and get up, barely able to breathe.

"You can't die, Bobby-Joe, you just **can't**. I love you. Please tell me he's not gonna die, Hank. I can't bear it." She looked petrified. She sounded very melodramatic. Why would he be dying? It hadn't been _that _spectacular a fall had it?

Hank pulled her off at last, firm hands taking her by the elbows and bringing her to her feet.

"He's **not **gonna die, Becky-Lou," he assured her firmly, "He's okay."

"Honest? You're sure? Bobby-Joe? **Please** tell me you're alright?" She turned her attention back to Sam, who was still trying to get his breath back from her onslaught of affection.

He smiled reassuringly and rose shakily to his feet – being careful not to put any weight on his 'sprained' wrist – Leaping had, by virtue of necessity, turned him into quite an accomplished actor. To prove he wasn't in imminent danger of expiring, he moved forward and tried to put a soothing arm around her shoulder.

"Still in one piece, see? You don't get rid of me that easy, Becky-Lou." He joked, trying to laugh her out of her fears.

It didn't exactly have the desired effect.

She pushed his arm away and spun round to face him full on, slapping him hard on the cheek.

Sam gasped and recoiled, his eyes wide, as much in shocked surprise as in response to the stinging pain. He felt the blood rush to the surface, sending him crimson, and when he put his hand up to rub his face; it felt hot to the touch.

"Hey, what was that for?" he asked in all innocence.

She hadn't finished with him yet. As he backed off, she stepped closer, raising both hands this time. He thought she intended to hug him again, and was about to reciprocate when she began pummelling his chest, stamping her feet petulantly and shaking her head. She shrieked at him:

"I hate you, Bobby-Joe Parnell, do you hear me? I hate you. I hate you. I **hate** you." Each word was punctuated with a hammering of her fists. He raised his 'good' hand and caught her clenched fist mid-blow, restraining her gently but firmly. For such a petite young woman, she packed quite a wallop.

"Honey, what's wrong? What'd I do?" his bewilderment was genuine. Becky-Lou's emotions certainly ran high; her attitude to him was ambivalent in the extreme. She was snivelling now, but still angry.

"How **could** you? You insensitive brute! I hate you. How **dare** you worry me like that? It was a beastly thing to do, letting me think that **you**'d been badly hurt, too."

'Too?' thought Sam, looking around, 'who else is hurt?' Aloud he said, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean …" he tried to put a comforting arm round her again.

She interrupted him, twisting out of his reach.

"Don't you touch me, you hear? Leave me alone, Bobby-Joe. I don't **ever **want to see you again." She was wearing an eternity ring and a St Christopher medallion together on a dainty gold chain around her neck. As she spoke she grabbed them both in her hand and yanked hard on the chain so that it broke. Then she flung them in Sam's face, turned on her heels and stormed off, sobbing her heart out.

Sam moved to follow her, distressed by her distress, but Coach Montgomery put out a hand to stop him. Then, confusingly, he heard two voices telling him:

"Let her go, B-J."

"Let her go, Sam."

Al had arrived.


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

There were a hundred questions on Sam's lips – as usual. The one person in the crowd who may just have some answers for him was the _only _person he couldn't ask in a crowd – as usual. Sam bit back all the things he wanted to say to Al, knowing that there was no way he could mask his queries in the guise of 'normal' conversation. Nevertheless, he let his eyes and an enigmatic smile tell Al that he was pleased to see him.

Sam bent down, a little awkwardly, his recent excursion having stretched muscles he'd forgotten he possessed. He carefully picked up the ring, the lucky charm and the broken chain, shaking off the snow. Both items of jewelry were engraved, unsurprisingly, with the inscription "To Becky-Lou, Love Always, B-J."

It didn't take even one percent of Dr Beckett's off the scale IQ to work out that these two were childhood sweethearts.

Sam was somewhat alarmed to find that he more than understood the attraction; despite the abuse he'd suffered at her hands. There was something very appealing, almost irresistible about Becky-Lou, with her bright excited eyes, and perfectly proportioned figure, blatantly obvious even under the obligatory thick knitted sweater. Sam desperately hoped it was just a residual of Bobby-Joe's emotions he was feeling. Samuel John Beckett was easily old enough to be Becky Lou's father and he certainly wasn't into cradle snatching. That was more Al's department.

As if reading his friend's mind, or maybe his body language, Al gestured towards the retreating figure with his unlit cigar and commented:

"Spunky little wench, that one. I like her style." He grinned wickedly.

Sam glared daggers. Al had obviously witnessed her performance, and his own squirming humiliation. It was a safe bet that he had every intention of reminding Sam of it at every available opportunity, with his 'how the mighty are fallen' mocking tone. Al could be pretty insufferable at times.

Yet Sam wouldn't have him any other way. Rough diamond he may be, but a true 24-carat gem, nonetheless, as he had proved on countless occasions.

Coach Montgomery saw Sam looking at the broken necklace, glittering with the reflection of sun on snow.

"Give her time, B-J," he advised. "She's only just seen the ambulance take Jill away. She's still in shock."

'She's not the only one.' Thought Sam, nodding, still suffering from what he called PLC – Post Leap-in Confusion. He'd found out who he was this time – a boy named Bobby-Joe Parnell, and where. Closer examination of the numbered bibs, which all the youngsters wore, revealed in gold lettering that this skiing competition was taking place in ALTA, UTAH. (Somewhere east of Salt Lake City.) Okay so far. But that still left when and why. There were not many clues in the immediate environment to help him date this Leap. Except that the absence of designer ski-suits and the predominance of natural fibers over nylon and polyester suggested Early rather than Late. As to why, he wondered if this other casualty held a clue. Who was Jill? Sam threw an enquiring glance at Al, whose fingers were already dancing over the buttons of his com-link, the portable interface that allowed him to access Ziggy's vast databanks. The hologram frowned, and gave the device a hefty thump, as if that would make it yield more - or different - information.

"Meanwhile, get that wrist checked out," ordered the Coach. "The basement should be pretty well clear by now. Then get changed out of those damp clothes before you catch your death."

"Yessir!" replied Sam obediently, following Hank down the last stretch of the mountain, then up a shallow slope to the basement of the Alta Lodge (largest of three) which had been commandeered as a first aid room.

It was more or less empty now, as Hank had predicted, but evidence suggested it had seen more than its fair share of activity in recent hours. Half a dozen toboggans with crumpled blankets were laid out across the floor, which was littered with oddments of bandage and discarded mitts.

The first aid team looked exhausted.

"Quite a day, huh?" Sam commented, as they bound his right wrist in a supporting bandage and slipped it into a protective sling triangulated expertly across his chest and tied firmly at the back of his neck. Luckily, they were tired enough to take his exaggerated self-diagnosis at face value, despite the absence of any discernable swelling.

"You betcha." was all the reply forthcoming. Not many hints there. They dismissed him and set about cleaning up.

Al, as was his wont, started telling Sam what he already knew, as they made their way outside again.

"You're Robert Joseph Parnell, Sam. Known as Bobby-Joe, or B-J. Nearly 18 years old. This guy," he indicated Sam's companion "is your Coach, Hank Montgomery. All the kids in the team just call him Hank. He's a tough taskmaster, but a good friend. B-J says he's very popular, even though they are all a bit in awe of him. He took the bronze in the last Winter Olympics.

Today is Sunday, 30th January 1955 and you've just crashed and burned in the annual Alta Snow Cup, a giant slalom contest designed to pick out the top skiers to qualify for the Olympic try-outs."

Sam's face took on the whipped puppy look. In the space of just a couple of minutes he'd managed to screw up Bobby-Joe's career big time. If there was one thing calculated to torment Dr Beckett's tender soul, it was the thought that he had caused misfortune to another, even unwittingly. _And_ he'd already caused a rift with B-J's long-term girlfriend.

"Boy, I **really **blew it this time, didn't I?" Sam said plaintively, his shoulders sagging with the weight of his guilt.

"Don't be too hard on yourself, B-J," soothed Hank, as he escorted Sam back to the team dormitories. "It's done now. These things happen. The pressure gets the better of all of us, one time or another."

"He's right, Sam. Don't sweat it. B-J wouldn't have made the squad anyway. He's an also-ran. Rebecca-Louise Carter is the real rising star. Becky-Lou is the reason you're here, Sam."

By now, they had reached the sleeping quarters, and Montgomery opened the door ushering Sam inside. Three sets of bunk beds lined the walls. Battered suitcases and knapsacks were shoved under the beds and atop the huge wardrobe in the corner. Every available inch of space was in use. Thoughtfully, his roommates were currently absent, postponing the need for the usual mental gymnastics of chatting to close friends he'd never met.

"Do you need any help getting changed?" Hank asked, inclining his head to indicate Sam's sling.

"No thanks, Coach. I'm sure I can manage."

"Okay, take it easy. I'll catch you downstairs later, at dinner. And don't worry about Becky. She'll come around when she's had a chance to calm down." He gave Sam a paternal pat on the shoulder.

"I sure hope so." Said Sam sincerely, rubbing his chest in remembered pain, as Hank closed the door behind him.

"Alone at last," sighed Sam, sitting down on the nearest bunk.

Al grinned, "Oh? And what am I then? Chopped salami?"

Sam looked askance at him, and grinned back. "You know perfectly well what I meant, Al. Now, what's it all about? What's your old vade-mecum got to tell me this time?"

"My old WHAT?" Al hated it when Sam inadvertently made him feel ignorant. He'd long ago accepted that his friend, Dr Samuel John Beckett - scholar of six doctorates and an IQ higher than Everest – was smarter than even his closest contemporaries, and a good deal of his conversation often went over Everyone's heads. At least when he recalled all he'd learnt in his vastly accelerated studies. In the days before Leaping had magnafoozled his brain, a fellow scientist had once teased Sam that he must have been the inspiration for Douglas Adams' character of Marvin, the paranoid android.

"You know, Sam, '_Here I am – brain the size of a planet. It gives me a headache just talking _down_ to your level_.' It's you to a T!"

Sam had not been amused. It wasn't as if he enjoyed showing off. And he tried his best to be patient when others took forever to grasp what to him were obvious concepts. But he had to admit that being so different from his peers had been a mixed blessing at best. It could be lonely at the top.

Sam and Al had been close friends long enough that they had found a comfortable level of common ground. And it was not as if the Admiral was a slug mentally either – he was way smarter than the average bear. It was only once in a while, like now, when he was caught off guard that Al felt embarrassed by the need to ask for explanations.

Sam had slipped off his sling, and was deftly unlacing his boots with both hands. He looked up and pointed at Al's com-link, which was beeping and flashing true to form.

"Vade-mecum," Sam repeated, in his best schoolmaster's voice, "Through French from the Latin, 'go with me.' It means _a handbook or OTHER source of information to which constant reference is made. _So refer already."

This last with an affected Yiddish accent and a shaking of upturned palms.

Al chuckled. It was certainly an apt definition.

"Okay, professor, keep your shirt on," he teased in return, deliberately turning his back to give Sam privacy while he changed, and to emphasize the double meaning of his quip. He obediently fiddled with Ziggy's handset, assimilating the data that it fed him.

Sam had rifled through the room just enough to locate B-J's bunk and knapsack. He'd found a pair of green corduroy trousers, a casual green open-neck shirt and a clean woolen sweater – green and white fairisle with stylized pine trees and snowflakes alternating round the yoke. A pair of tennis shoes completed the sporty outfit. B-J was obviously heavily into the so-called chlorophyll craze, which had permeated all aspects of consumerism in the early to mid 50's. From clothes to chewing gum to deodorants, green was **the** color, long before it became synonymous with ecological sympathizers.

"Very natty, Sam. A trifle OTT, but **definitely** you." Al commented, sarcastically, surveying the results. (Al, of course, was a **true** 'Green,' he cared passionately about the pollution of the planet.)

Sam rounded on him, looking him up and down incredulously,

"You can't be serious! Over the top? That's rich, coming from _you_. Have you taken a good look in the mirror lately?"

Al was renowned for his eccentric taste in apparel. Today, he was sporting – that was the only word for it – a set of jockey silks. The shirt, high collared, had a scarlet background, and was ablaze with purple and blue five pointed stars, outlined in gold, in assorted sizes. The sleeves were blue and purple quartered, split with gold piping, and red cuffs. The jodhpurs were midnight blue, but shimmered purple as the light caught them. It was so loud as to be incalculable in terms of decibels.

"That get-up is a tad outrageous even by your standards, Al," pronounced Sam.

"What? This modest little ensemble?" Al protested innocently, giving a twirl, "This is nothing. I just threw this on earlier when Tina and I were horsing around." He smirked, obviously enjoying the memory even more than the corny joke.

Sam balled the numbered bib and tossed it at him. Naturally, it passed straight through, unhindered by any hint of contact with the insubstantial hologram.

"I cannot believe you just said that, Al. You're incorrigible." They both laughed briefly, and then by unspoken agreement returned to the matter in hand. Al consulted his 'vade-mecum' again.

"You said I was here for Becky-Lou, Al. It's not to improve her right hook, so what's the problem?"

Al sniggered, remembering the spectacle of Sam laid low by the diminutive young woman in question.

"No, Sam. She certainly doesn't need any help in that department. Ziggy says that all the signs pointed to her becoming Olympic Champion by the '60 Winter Games, but she just drops out. After today's race – in which she came a respectable 4th by the way – she never skis again. You've got to find out why, and get her back on track, or she'll spend the rest of her life miserable and unfulfilled."

"I thought you said this was'55. I am **not** going to be stuck here for the next 5 years!" he swallowed convulsively at the very thought, "Please tell me I'm not, Al." The average Leap lasted a matter of days, weeks at the most.

"Don't panic, kiddo. Ziggy says that won't be necessary. This is a turning point in her life, that's all. Get her straight now and the rest will follow."

Sam was busying himself checking through Bobby-Joe's possessions, trying to build up a picture of his personality. He'd found the lad's diary and was scanning it idly, easily able to give his attention to both that and Al simultaneously. (Once upon a time, Sam would have been appalled at the very suggestion that he could be involved in such an invasion of privacy. Yet Leaping had forced many things upon Sam, and he'd long since learned not to waste his energies feeling guilty about the necessary evils.)

Now Sam slammed the diary shut and stared at Al.

"I hope you're not going to tell me she's hung up her skis because of my little exhibition back there? She seemed pretty rattled." Sam looked horrified at the mere possibility.

"Get real, Sam. She'd decided to quit _before_ you Leaped in, remember?"

Sam relaxed a little. He sometimes had a tendency to get carried away. Over-react. It was hard to keep a sense of perspective when you are being bounced around in time, switching from life to life across all sorts of cultural and social and sexual barriers in the blink of a cosmic clock. He was a living embodiment of the condition described as job related stress.

Now he became business-like again, examining what else they had to go on. He had learned to view every snippet of information as a potential clue. It was all filed away in his photographic memory, stored until it was needed or could be discarded. Or until he Leaped and his memory got Swiss-cheesed again.

"What about this Jill then? Is she part of our team?"

Al planted his cigar firmly in the corner of his mouth and punched a series of buttons on his com-link.

"No, Sam, she's not. Your group – two girls and five boys - including Becky-Lou and you, uh Bobby-Joe, are from a little place called Beersheba Springs, Tennessee. Southern tip of the Appalachian Mountains."

"Oh, terrific," interjected Sam, "I'm a redneck hick from the sticks!"

"What d'you expect, with a name like Bobby-Joe?" teased Al, casting a sideways glance at his friend. "If it makes you feel any better take a look in the mirror."

He indicated the wardrobe, which Sam opened to reveal a large mirror on the inside of the door. He studied the reflection pensively. Anyone who didn't know Dr Samuel Beckett would accuse him of extreme narcissism. Indeed, at times, his compulsion to find a mirror and look at 'himself' bordered on obsession. Conversely, anyone who _did_ know Sam would tell you that nothing could be further from the truth. To Sam, mirror gazing was a surreal experience.

"You're terminally handsome," Al was telling him, "and if you weren't so faithful to the lovely Becky-Lou, you could have your pick, you lucky dog. It seems the girls all think you're some sort of James Dean or something. Next to this ski ace Buek from Soda Springs, who thrills the chicks with his crazy stunts both on the piste and in his Piper Cub, you – Mr. Adonis Parnell - are the numero uno attraction." Al jabbed at his buddy with his cigar and smirked. Some classical allusions were familiar even to him.

The face looking back at Sam bore an embarrassed expression to which it was obviously unaccustomed. Dr Beckett's thoughtful gaze furrowed the brow. Bobby-Joe was almost certainly far more carefree and cock-sure of himself than the older but more bashful man who currently wore his aura. The fresh-faced adolescent certainly had classic good looks. Thick, jet-black hair was slicked back with Jeri's antiseptic hair tonic (as endorsed by one Ronald Reagan 'for greaseless good grooming and healthier, handsomer hair.') in a DA style reminiscent of early Presley. (Now why should that ring bells?) The flawless skin was tanned. Deep set, blue eyes sat astride the fine straight nose. The cheekbones were high, the jaw angular. The teeth were even and very white, the chin strong. A noble face, somehow; open and honest and trustworthy. It was not a prerequisite for Sam to like the people he Leapt into, indeed there had been times when he'd been positively appalled to find himself a lecherous old drunk, or even a mass murderer holding innocent hostages. Yet undeniably it helped if he felt 'simpatico' as Al put it. This face led him to hope that his current host was one of the good guys.

Bobby-Joe was tall and lean, but not scrawny - fit and agile if not overly muscular. The long musicians fingers fitted logically with the presence of the guitar stashed beneath his bunk.

Sam looked hard at Bobby-Joe, and remembered Becky-Lou's passionate affirmation of love. He decided that he was not going to enjoy being a sex symbol and vowed to make his peace with the young lady at the earliest opportunity. A monogamous relationship was infinitely preferable to being a free agent and consequently fair game for every eligible maiden in the vicinity. Well, it was if your name was Sam Beckett, though he knew Al Calavicci would have felt entirely different about the possibilities.

"We digress." Sam announced to Al, deliberately turning his back on the figure in the mirror. "If this Jill's not on our team, what is her connection with Becky-Lou? Who is she, a relative? And why is she in hospital?"

Al cleared his throat. He shifted nervously from one foot to the other.

"According to Ziggy, she's a top skier from Bishop, California. 18 years old. Made the front cover of Sports Illustrated this month. Seems she's Becky-Lou's idol. A sort of role model. B-J tells us she was more thrilled at the prospect of meeting Jill Kinmont than she was at being picked to take part in the race herself."

B-J's frown deepened as something stirred deep in Sam's brain. All trace of his recent jocularity evaporated. Suddenly, his photographic memory snapped into focus, triggered by the name Al had used. He almost yelled at his friend, hardly able to credit the implications.

"Did you say Jill _Kinmont_? **The** Jill Kinmont?"

"You telling me you've heard of her, buddy?" Al was taken aback; he hadn't anticipated that particular possibility.

Sam struggled to make some order of the jumble of memories that crowded in on him.

"Must have read about her, I guess." He thought aloud. "As far as I recall, she was L.A. Woman of the Year some time in the sixties. Not as an Olympic skiing champion though." He paused, forehead creased in consternation, chewing his lip pensively. "My God, Al. She was paralyzed. A quadriplegic. And the accident happened…." His voice trailed off with a sharp intake of breath.

Al saw the mental process registering on Sam's face. He had also been fed the information from Ziggy. He finished what Sam couldn't bring himself to vocalize.

"That's right, Sam. Today. January 30th 1955. She wiped out earlier this afternoon. Miss-timed a pre-jump at Corkscrew gully and crashed headlong down the hill at 40mph. She broke her neck, Sam." He spoke very softly, his voice full of regret. He'd hoped to break it to Sam more gently than this, but his friend's unpredictable photographic memory had forced the pace.

Sam had sunk back down onto B-J's bunk. He leant forward, elbows on knees and buried his head in his hands, looking utterly dejected. His companion knew exactly what he was going to say even before he spoke, and looked on sympathetically, knowing he could offer no solace for what ailed Sam.

"Why, Al?" whispered Sam, shaking his head slowly and almost choking on the words, "Why am I too late – again?"

Dr Beckett, temporal wanderer, had come to accept that God or Fate or Whoever or Whatever was pulling his strings, Leaping him around in Time, putting him in situations where he could right a wrong, make the World a better place. Though it was fraught with many difficulties, even dangers; frequently frustrating and though he often yearned to be free to go Home and be himself it was, for the most part, an existence which offered considerable job satisfaction. He'd helped a great many people; done a lot of good; saved a number of lives; made a difference.

Yet it was only a drop in the ocean. If there was indeed a caring deity or such-like presiding over his good deeds, how could 'It' keep plaguing him with near misses like this? Why hadn't 'It' brought him here in time to prevent Jill Kinmont's accident? Surely this was exactly the sort of tragic and unnecessary occurrence that cried out to be remedied? Wasn't this precisely what Leaping was all about?

Al could read all these thoughts in Sam, even without looking at the forlorn expression, the dispirited air. He'd seen it coming. As soon as Ziggy had fed him the data on the Kinmont girl out on the slope Al had known Sam would take it hard. Damned hard. He always did. He couldn't turn his caring on and off like a tap. And Dr Beckett's capacity for caring ran deep. Too deep for his own good. Which was why Albert Calavicci hadn't been in any hurry to acquaint him with the facts. Even a cynical pragmatist such as himself baulked at putting his best friend through Hell.

"It's not fair, Al." Muttered Sam implacably, punching the bed frame with his 'damaged' hand, welcoming the momentary distraction of the pain. Then he sprang to his feet and began pacing the floor, burning off nervous energy, trying to release pent up anger and a strong sense of injustice that had nowhere to go.

Al instinctively stepped back to give him room, but before he could open his mouth to speak Sam put up a restraining hand and snapped at him, his tone laden with bitterness:

"And don't you dare bother giving me that old line about '_some things just aren't meant to be changed'. _It's wearing a bit thin, Al."

He was grinding his fist into the palm of his other hand; fingers wrapped round knuckles, jaw set tight.

Al didn't think this was the time to remind Sam of all the good Jill Kinmont-Boothe had done in _her_ life, like teaching Indian kids on the Bishop reservation, when nobody else gave damn about them, a career she would almost certainly never have considered had her profession as a skier not been cut short. That could come later, when he'd calmed down, and could accept the truth of it.

"I'd let you deck me if I thought it would help." Al told him, deliberately stepping back into his path and squaring up, pointing to his chin by way of invitation. For a moment, it looked as if Sam would take him up on his offer. He drew back his arm.

"That's right, strike down the messenger for being the bearer of bad tidings, oh mighty emperor!" deadpan face; toe-to-toe with his friend; unwavering, Al challenged Sam. Their eyes met and locked for a long moment. Al didn't need to say anymore. He shrugged, eyebrows raised. Sam lowered his hand to his side and laughed mirthlessly.

"Thanks, Al. I deserved that."

The mood was broken. Time traveler bomb diffused.


	4. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Becky-Lou Carter stumbled through the crowds, blinded by tears of rage and sorrow and a whole confusion of emotions that defied description. She had no idea where she was going, only that she wanted to get away - from everyone and everything. She was sure people were laughing at her behind her back as she passed.

She had to escape, run, flee.

She couldn't stand the derision, or the patronizing sympathy, or the questions or the looks. Most of all she couldn't cope with the tangle of emotions that engulfed her. Yet no matter how fast or how far she ran, she couldn't seem to shake them off. They swept her back up the mountainside.

As she ran, slipping and sliding on the fine, powdery snow which whipped up around her ankles like a cloud of talcum, her arms flailed wildly at her sides, trying to fight off both real and imagined pursuers.

"Leave me alone, all of you, just leave me ALONE!" she cried, as friends tried to comfort her, reaching out to console her. From time to time her head swung around, bunches bobbing over her shoulder, to see if she had evaded her tormentors.

At last she was the only person around, having struck out well away from the course.

She found herself blundering through a grove of pine trees, where every shadow was reaching out, trying to pull her body this way and that, just as her thoughts were pulling her mind in different directions.

She had finally stopped running, panting; her face flushed beetroot to the tips of her ears. She clutched her sides and doubled over, gasping as a sharp stitch cramped her abdominal muscles. Her pulse was racing and she could hear her heart pounding in the still woods. Then she sank, exhausted, to the forest floor and sniffed, wiping her nose on her sleeve for want of a handkerchief. She was all cried out. She hugged up to the trunk of the nearest tree and buried her head in her lap. Still she could not shut out the memories.

Yesterday, she had been the happiest girl in the world.

Yesterday, all her dreams were coming true…

Their plane had landed at Salt Lake City airport early on Saturday morning, but her feet had not touched the ground all day. Firstly, there had been the thrill of having been invited to take part in the Snow Cup. It had been her best season yet, and Hank said she was showing real promise. Coming from Coach Montgomery, that was very encouraging. He didn't squander his praise.

Then, when they got to the Lodge, Bobby-Joe had presented her with an eternity ring to go with the St Christopher he'd bought her three Christmas's ago. And he'd hinted that if her Daddy didn't object, he'd be getting her a real engagement ring for her 17th birthday in the summer. Her future looked bright and exciting and was heading in exactly the right directions.

Best of all, just after lunch, they had been walking past the Peruvian Lodge when Jill Kinmont herself had come out, with the rest of the Bishop skiers, heading for the Germania Pass. Becky-Lou had been rooted to the spot, speechless with admiration for the older girl, whom she considered to be the best skier she'd ever seen, and as pretty as she wished she could be, and whose career she had followed closely. Becky-Lou had been clutching her newly purchased, but already thrice read, copy of 'Sport's Illustrated' with Jill's color photo emblazoned on the cover, and a three page fully illustrated article inside on her success at the Sun Valley training camp. Becky- Lou had never been this close to _anybody_ famous before, let alone someone as special as Jill, and she was completely awe-struck.

Then Jill was walking towards her, resplendent in her home knitted sunshine yellow jumper, and all she could do was grin like an idiot. Her best friend, Tammy Nelson, had nudged her, tried to push her forwards, "Go on, talk to her."

But her feet wouldn't respond. Besides, she didn't know what to say. Her normally sharp brain turned to mush. It had been Bobby-Joe who'd stepped in and made her dearest wish come true. He'd gone right up to Miss Kinmont bold as brass, and pointed Becky-Lou out to her as if it was his girlfriend who was the celebrity.

He explained to Jill how Becky-Lou had been the one who'd written countless letters to her over the last few months. He'd told Jill how much Becky-Lou admired her and respected her and tried to emulate her. Jill had lowered her eyes coyly and blushed. Then, incredibly, wonderfully, she had grinned broadly and come right on over to Becky-Lou. She'd even spoken to her, thanking her for the letters, which she'd obviously bothered to read, and sounding genuinely sorry that her training schedule had prevented her from having time to send a personal response. She'd chatted amiably; as if Becky-Lou were an old school friend she hadn't seen in a while. At first, Becky-Lou's mouth had opened and closed wordlessly like a fish out of water, but Jill had soon put her at her ease and before long she was answering Jill's questions, and asking many more of her own. Jill had even given her tips on how to improve her technique, and invited her to watch them practice that afternoon. And finally, magically, B-J had asked what she dared not, and Jill had autographed her treasured magazine. Becky-Lou had thought Bobby-Joe the most wonderful, thoughtful, amazing guy in the world, the best thing since the newly invented non-stick pan her widowed father kept enthusing about. She had thought herself the luckiest girl in the world, that he had chosen her when there were dozens of prettier girls around willing and eager to take her place.

By nine pm when Hank called curfew and they climbed into their bunks to try and get some sleep before the big race, Becky-Lou felt as if she had known Jill all her life. And having watched her on the slopes, copying the way she moved her shoulders as she turned, seeming to flow effortlessly down the hill, she was more confident about her own chances of qualifying for the try-outs too. She'd been far too hyped up to sleep, and had whispered excitedly to Tammy for well over an hour, reliving every brilliant moment of the day, before finally drifting off into a world of blissful dreams.

But that had been yesterday.

Today, her world had fallen apart.

Okay, so she'd come fourth in the women's heats, behind top skiers Andrea Mead-Lawrence, Katy Rodolph and Skeeter Warner. That was better than she'd dared hope for. But it should have been fifth at least...

She'd finished her run, and knew it was the best she'd ever skied. B-J had met her at the finish with a kiss and told her how proud he was of her, before heading for the ski room to wax his skis one last time and get ready for the men's race. Becky-Lou had made him rub her St Christopher for luck as they parted, and promised she'd be waiting to return the kiss when he'd made his run. Then she'd gone to find herself a good spot to watch the 'real' skiers take their turns. It should have been Andy and Skeeter next, but they had been late getting to the start so that Becky-Lou had only just got to her vantage point when Jill came hurtling out of the starting gate with a surge of power.

Jill had begun well; the snow was really fast. She looked set for a record-breaking run, but then Jill hadn't checked at the left turn just above the Corkscrew, and the snow seemed to be running away with her. Instead of pre-jumping the four foot high knoll, she was two or three seconds late.

Jill appeared to be flying then, out of control, heading for the trees. She'd covered her face, narrowly missing the trunks and tumbling instead into a group of spectators, knocking them down like nine-pins, and dragging one with her. It had seemed to Becky-Lou as if Jill would be tumbling and sliding down the mountain for ever but at last she had stopped, with the spectator sprawled on top of her.

Becky-Lou had tried to get closer to find out what was going on, but the whole crowd was surging forward and it was impossible to see what was happening.

She heard someone shout for splints and a litter. By the time Becky-Lou had followed the anxious group down the mountain, Jill had been put in temporary traction. She'd been taken gently down the mountain and into the Alta Lodge basement to wait for the ambulance. Becky-Lou had not even noticed when Andy and Skeeter and the others had made their runs, and the winners had been declared. She didn't register when her own name was pronounced fourth. She'd been too busy hovering outside the first-aid room, hoping to hear that Jill had just broken a leg or something. The mumblings she had overheard made her afraid that things were far more serious than that. _Becky-Lou vowed then and there that she would not set foot on the piste again herself until Jill was back in competition._

To make matters worse, apparently not only were there traffic jams, but also a nasty car accident on the narrow road. It was ages before the ambulance had been able to get in. By which time everyone had been sent away, so as not to hinder the new casualties, which had begun piling into the basement, including Kenny Lloyd from Bishop, who had broken his arm. Becky-Lou had wandered dejectedly towards the finish line as Tammy had come running up to inform her that B-J was making his run. She'd looked up just in time to see him thundering down the course, completely uncontrolled. He had a wild, crazy, frightened look on his face, so that Becky-Lou had hardly recognized him.

She had stood; stunned, as the only other racer she really cared about looked set to repeat Jill's catastrophic performance. When he'd fallen face down in the snow, she'd been too scared to join the throng, which had rushed to his assistance. Too terrified that he wasn't ever going to get up again.

Then, after what seemed an eternity, the uncertainty became unbearable. She knew Hank was on the scene and went to seek him out. Suddenly, she had to know for sure, however dreadful the news.

It hadn't been bad news at all of course, and she should have been relieved, overjoyed. But Bobby-Joe had marred her happiness by showing a degree of insensitivity of which she would not have believed him to be capable. How could he have laughed at her fears like that? He wouldn't have seen Jill's accident, but he must have heard about it. He should have known how upset she'd be by it. He knew how she felt about Jill - had once joked that if it had been Buddy Werner or Dick Buek she'd admired that intensely he might have been insanely jealous. He should have been more sympathetic, more supportive, more understanding.

Instead, he'd been a pig. That sort of jollying along might work for some girls, but not for her. Never for her. She thought he knew her better than that. She thought she knew him better. She was so confused. And to add insult to injury, he hadn't even tried to stop her running off when she'd gotten justifiably upset. He hadn't attempted to come after her and apologize. Didn't he care at all?

It was so out of character for him, he was usually so attentive. Could she have done something to hurt him, to cause this change in him? She didn't think so. She kept trying to think of an explanation or excuse for his behavior, but the more she thought about it, the more callous it seemed, and the more betrayed she felt.

If he could behave like that, she was better off without him. She had meant it when she said she hated him and didn't want to see him again. So how come it hurt so much that he had taken her at her word? Why was it that even while she was despising him for his actions, she was longing for the comforting embrace of his arms, the reassurance of his familiar smile?

For as long as she could remember, whenever she had been upset or frightened, Bobby-Joe had always been there for her. Older and wiser, calm, confident, in charge.

At first, he'd been like a big brother to her, watching out for her as they grew up together on the same block, at the same school. Then as they got older, their relationship had blossomed into something deeper, more romantic, without them even really being aware of the transition. B-J had always made things better, showed her how to cope, stopped her from panicking, especially when her condition had first been diagnosed, and she'd despaired of ever being able to lead a normal life. How was she supposed to cope now, without him? How could she expect him to cure the problem this time when he _was_ the problem? Still, Becky-Lou wanted him to come and sweep her up in his arms and tell her that everything was all right. She wanted most of all for him to turn back the clock so that they could go back to yesterday.

Yesterday, when she had been the happiest girl in the world.

Yesterday, when she had been the luckiest girl in the world.

Yesterday, when all her dreams were coming true.

But that was yesterday.

Today was a nightmare.

Today, she thought she could never be happy again.

Today, she clung to a tree trunk, and to a vain hope that none of the day's events were real, and that she would soon wake up. She sobbed quietly to herself.

Eventually, the chill in the air and the lengthening of the shadows made her aware that it was getting late. She really should head back to the Lodge; her hunger told her it must be time for supper. Yet the last thing she felt like was eating. She thought that any attempt to consume food would simply choke her; that dinner would be harder to swallow than her wounded pride. Yet she knew what would happen if she started skipping meals.

She got up stiffly and began trudging back down the mountain. She was dragging her heels, head bowed. Even as the last shred of rational thought told her she had to go eat, the lost, frightened, hurt little girl in her whispered of revenge.

'_Don't bother, Becky-Lou.'_ Her inner voice wheedled. '_What does it matter if you don't eat? What's the point of it? Think how Bobby-Joe will feel if you get sick. That'd show him. That'd take the wind out of his sails. Then he'd know how it felt to worry about someone_.'

For a while as she walked, rigid as an automaton, common sense wrestled within her with the urge to punish: - Bobby-Joe, herself, the world. Then, as she neared the dining room, the sounds of carefree laughter mixed with the clink of cutlery on china and common sense went out the window. She wasn't to blame. It was all Bobby-Joe's fault. If only he hadn't been so horrid. If only he'd bothered to try and put things right.

But it was too late now. Her mind was made up. It would be easy, and painless.

B-J would be the one to suffer, watching her die. She wouldn't feel much at all.

She was already getting a little faint, and her palms were sweating, but before it got too alarming she would be comatose. Then all her worries would be over, and nothing else would be able to hurt her ever again. She nodded to herself in satisfaction at the simplicity of her plan and detoured to the ski room, where she was sure Bobby-Joe would find her, but not _too_ soon.


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

Once he'd reassured himself that Sam was sufficiently out of the doldrums, Al had imparted all available knowledge - such as it was – and bowed out.

Now he stepped out of the Imaging Chamber and carelessly tossed aside the com-link, which Gushie fumbled after and somehow managed to catch just before it clattered to the floor. The little man tucked it carefully into the pocket of his grubby white lab-coat, which he then patted protectively, and frowned at his superior. He was not accustomed to seeing delicate and vital equipment treated with such disrespect, especially by someone as acutely aware of its importance as the Project Observer, who would have chewed out any underling who'd dared display so little regard for both property and protocol.

"Problems, Admiral?" he asked, wondering if he was about to put in yet another all-nighter trying to correct the latest glitch in the system.

Al gave him a wide berth, leaning back out of range of the rancid breath, which was Gushie's predominant feature.

"Nothing Sam can't handle," he responded curtly.

Not being disposed to engage in further conversation, Al by-passed the octagonal door that led to the Waiting Room.

B-J would keep.

Instead, he went back to his quarters and changed into a tamer (for him) outfit – to whit one turquoise three-piece suit, with moiré waistcoat and tie, which perfectly complemented the shirt, two shades darker and purest silk. A handkerchief, the same tone as the shirt, was folded neatly, peeping out of the breast jacket pocket. When he had completed the new image, Al stopped by his office to pick up some paperwork, which he could no longer afford to ignore. The atmosphere there, though offering him privacy and freedom from distractions was somehow not conducive to his mood, so he headed for the Project cafeteria to get himself a dose of strong black coffee, folders tucked briskly under his arm.

It was a Common Room that only rarely served for social gatherings, and although not entirely deserted, Al was able to find the solitude he sought within its walls. One look at his dour expression warned his colleagues not to pester him with petty complaints or inconsequential pleasantries. Al filled his favorite mug with steaming hot black coffee. It was a chunky white china mug with a single line of a musical score dancing around it. Sam had spotted it in a department store in Washington and declared it to be perfect for his nautical friend. He'd been unable to resist buying it and teased Al for an interminably long time before allowing him to unwrap it, revealing that the tune depicted was "_Anchor's Aweigh"_.

Al settled himself at a vacant table, where he buried his nose in requisitions and reports, and muttered inaudibly about the annoying need to keep Weitzman off all their backs, and how he'd like to lure him into a dark theatre and assist him in the ultimate emulation of his idol.

Meanwhile, unnoticed by the Project Observer, Ike Bettenhoff sat at a corner table canoodling with his latest conquest, a cute wisp of a thing called Miranda who worked in coding. Project personnel tended to live a rather cloistered – but far from monastic – existence. Circumstances meant that internal relationships, both transitory and of the more permanent variety were rife. Most still had homes to go to in what they referred to as the Outside World, or sometimes the Real World, but the vast majority tended to live on-site for much of the time. Shift work, security ratings, and the isolated location of the Project Headquarters all conspired to make nipping home in the lunch hour something less than a practical option. Such excursions were generally reserved for periods of annual leave, when folks went home for the holidays. It was a lifestyle that wouldn't have suited everybody, and for obvious reasons most employees had been appointed partly because they _didn't_ have family ties.

Project living quarters were fairly Spartan, as budget constraints demanded, but they were comfortable and more than adequate for the most part. Personally speaking, Admiral Calavicci found that they suited him very well. When Sam had first begun Leaping, he'd still commuted a good deal of the time. But an increase in alimony payments, coupled with an antisocial neighbor with a penchant for late-night car maintenance, not to mention the fact that he had to be 'on call' for Sam 24-7, soon convinced him that it would be prudent to sell up and move lock, stock and cigar box to the "Quantum Leap Motel". His needs were few, and he felt at ease in an environment that reminded him of the military.

Certainly, the rooms were eminently suitable for the particular leisure activity that Ike was currently suggesting to a giggling Miranda (who was known as Randy to her friends – especially the close ones.). The lovebirds slid across the bench and went slinking off in search of greater privacy, fielding good-natured nudge-nudge comments from friends at another table on the way out.

Watching them go, Brenda shook her head and tutted in mock disapproval. Then she flicked her flaming red hair over her shoulder and laughed.

"We don't need a decoder to work out what _those_ two are up to!" She commented in a stage whisper behind her hand to her friend Lucille, who sniggered. As one of the earlier notches on Ike's bedpost, Lucille could have drawn diagrams, if so required. She felt no rancor toward Randy for having replaced her in Ike's affections. For one thing, there had been countless others in the interim, and for another the relationship had – as so many did in this environment – simply run its course. Couples tended to part amicably on the whole, and whilst egos inevitably got bruised, and tempers occasionally frayed, it remained a remarkably harmonious team. Of course, Dr Verbena Beeks could claim more than a little credit for this happy state of affairs (as she liked to call it, being - like Al - enormously fond of puns).

Though he wouldn't dream of admitting as much to her face, Admiral Calavicci privately considered that she was worth _twice_ her weight in gold (given that her tall, slender frame had earned her the affectionate nickname of Beanpole). She could be agony aunt and Earth Mother, big sister and best friend. She combined the Wisdom of Solomon with the patience of Job and kept an unfailing sense of humor throughout. And all this wrapped up in one incredible knockout package. Al had frequently speculated that in the unlikely event that Verbena ever succumbed to a bout of PMS or a fit of depression herself, the place would literally fall apart at the seams.

Just at present, things seemed to be ticking along very nicely in the personal relationship department. Even Al himself was currently enjoying a period of comparative stability in his on/off relationship with the sometimes-volatile Tina. This happy circumstance could be accredited to Ziggy, who had subtly reminded Al of the recent anniversary of some minor milestone in the couple's liaison, allowing him to surprise (not to mention amaze) the young lady in question with a suitably romantic gift. Days later Al was still basking in her gratitude and delight.

Although at this precise moment in time, the rosiness of his garden of lust was far from the Admiral's mind. He was concentrating intently on Project accounts, trying as ever to equate immense expenditure (would you just _look_ at that electricity bill!) with woefully inadequate income, and wondering how on earth he would manage to continue paying Paul, since they had already robbed Peter of all but the clothes he stood up in!

It was a good job that none of the workers were the bolshi, militant type. Al Calavicci daren't begin to imagine the ramifications if any of the "essential" crew to which they had been reduced decided to go on all out strike for higher pay. He shook his head and huffed his shoulders. It just didn't bear thinking about. So he didn't. He pored over the books again, a deep frown furrowing his brow. He sighed irritably as he was distracted by a noise from across the cafeteria.

Brenda and Lucille had been joined by two more of their friends – Patti, a dumpy little blonde who worked alongside Brenda and Miranda in coding, and her boyfriend Rusty from Security. He had brought in a 14" portable color television, which he placed on the table so that they could all see it. The quartet huddled round; chatting excitedly as they eagerly awaited the start of the show they'd looked forward to all week. Patti's sister Robyn had made it to the grand final of the year's hottest, not to mention wildest, new game show, and tonight she would be competing for the Star Prize, which included $100,000 (tax free), a brand spanking new top of the range sports car and an "out of this world" holiday experience.

The basic premise of the show involved getting members of the public paired up with a celebrity 'alien', who had supposedly landed in their back yard (shades of ET). Being from "outer space" the alleged alien life form had no concept of the uses of everyday objects, nor did they have the benefit of Star Trek's universal translators, making earthly languages unintelligible to them.

Consequently, it was up to the participants to demonstrate in mime etc what given objects were and how they are normally used. Points were awarded not only for each article correctly identified by the guest (in a language which naturally only the host could interpret) but also for the most original and entertaining improvisations from the contestants.

The weird and wonderful antics of the selected candidates, coupled with the reactions of the famous stars – which had thus far included such big names as actors Jeff Goldblum and Will Smith, veteran space explorer Leonard Nimoy, former child actor McCauley Caulkin, continually rising star Haley Joel Osment and the effervescent young stand-up comedian Tab Chattaway – made for compulsive viewing. The whole nation was hyped up for the finale (with the exception of the irascible Admiral), which promised to be a riot, particularly since the astronomically talented entertainer Robin Williams had agreed to take part.

Recent re-runs of old Mork and Mindy episodes bore ample witness to his credibility as an alien. He had been paired up with the irrepressible Robyn, whose extrovert personality and offbeat sense of humor had already won through in four previous rounds. She was now up for Champion of Champions, and all set to see off her last challenger, a gangly fellow called Clyde with matted dreadlocks and a swagger that made you seasick to watch. His prestigious partner was to be the deaf teenage actress Sami Kreiger, who had shot to fame as a child when she captured the hearts of millions on Lord Attenborough's knee in the remake of "Miracle of 34th Street". Since then she had starred in numerous big screen features and won world wide acclaim for her portrayal of the young Evelyn Glennie in the biopic of that talented lady's life.

As the game progressed, the shrieks of laughter from the growing group around the table rose in pitch, as did the raucous commentary and cheers of encouragement with each successive point that Robyn and Robin won.

Al became increasingly irritated at each break in his concentration, until at last he conceded defeat and gathered up his papers so that he could adjourn to somewhere quieter. He was loathe to complain - after all, they were off duty, and heaven knew they earned their downtime, so he didn't even glower over his shoulder at them as he left.

Had he done so, a sudden change in the broadcast would have stirred a far stronger reaction in him.

He would have noticed the program being interrupted to bring a news flash. Late breaking news informed the nation that there had been a train-wreck, and had Al been looking, one of the victims being carefully stretchered from the scene of carnage would have been alarmingly familiar to him.


	6. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five **

Sam didn't feel much like eating, and he certainly didn't feel like socializing with unknown friends. He knew he had agreed to meet the Coach at dinner, but decided that if Hank wanted to chew him out some more he could always come find him.

Al may have managed to lift the worst of his depression, but he was still on a downer, feeling frustrated and full of pity – mostly for Jill Kinmont of course, but more than a little for himself.

He guessed that deep down he _liked _being the guy in the white hat, the knight in shining armor, the gallant hero. And he was used to winning. All his life, success had followed him in all his endeavors; studies; theorems, experiments, Leaps. Okay, so maybe his _relationships_ had not always been so easy to manage, but didn't _every_one have problems there? His experiences over the past few years of Leaping suggested that marriages seldom ran as smoothly as his parents' seemed to have done; that parenthood was a minefield and friendships complex in the extreme, while the dating game seemed to have an ever changing set of rules that were impossible to keep track of.

Yet, on the whole, for Sam failure was seldom an option. Now, though, he couldn't help thinking that it would be easier to swallow than being denied the opportunity to try.

A loud, insistent hammering on the dormitory door abruptly interrupted his introspection.

"Oh, boy!" He sighed as he rose to answer it, "Guess Hank is about to lay into me again for something."

He was therefore taken aback when he opened the door to reveal an attractive teenage girl, with a clear complexion, big brown eyes and thick brown hair in a neat short bob. She was taller than Becky-Lou, and though slender, she was equally blessed with womanly charms, neatly packaged in a pair of pedal pushers and a tight fitting sweater. Not standing on ceremony, she pushed past him into the boys' dormitory, craning her head to left and right as if searching for something.

"Can I help you?" Sam enquired, politely, following her back into the room.

"Don't flatter yourself, B-J!" she retorted haughtily, giving him a playful punch on the arm. "Be-sides," she looked at him coyly; head tilted on one side, her hands behind her back, one foot twisting back and forward, 'Becky would never forgive me if I made a move on her 'dreamboat'!"

So, she must be one of their team from back 'home' in Beersheba Springs. Since Al had told him there were only two girls on the team, she had to be Becky's best friend, Tammy.

"Where is she, then?" suddenly Tammy was brusque again, all hint of flirting gone.

"Who?"

"Becky-Lou, dummy. Or do you have _another _girl in here?" Tammy frowned at him with a look that clearly said, 'You'd better not have, buster, or I'll set Becky-Lou on you again.' as she checked beneath the bunks and in the wardrobe for signs of life.

Not wishing to be on the receiving end of another of Becky's temper tantrums, Sam hastened to reassure Tammy that he had been completely alone until she had shown up. As Al had long since departed, he said it with a clear conscience.

Tammy did not seem pleased to hear it. "I'm worried about Becky-Lou, are you **sure** she isn't here with you?" They both knew it was against the rules, but then teenagers seldom let details like that stand in their way.

"Nope, I haven't seen her since she stormed off. Hank said to let her cool down, and it seemed like a good idea at the time." Seeing the concern in Tammy's eyes, he was no longer so sure of that.

"She's not been back to our dorm. She didn't show for dinner either, and you _know_ how particular she is about meals."

Sam didn't, and Becky-Lou's svelte figure didn't suggest that she was inclined toward gluttony, but as Tammy knew her better, he took her word for it.

"Oh no! B-J, she wouldn't be _that_ stupid, would she? Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" suddenly the look of concern escalated to one of panic, and she grabbed him by the arm, dragging him to the door.

Sam hadn't been, but he was starting to. Alarm bells rang in his brain as he put two and two together, mentally sifting through comments B-J had made in his diary, and the clues Tammy had just given him. The penny dropped with a sickening thud.

"First stop, the canteen. We're going to need some food." He was thinking aloud as they raced through deserted corridors, Sam allowing Tammy to take the lead, as she knew the way. "Oranges would be good, for vitamin C, and American cheese if they have any – rich in Chromium 3. Then candy of course, and fruit juice, or even better nettle tea, but I don't suppose they'll have that." He muttered his shopping list, at the same time praying they reached her while she was still conscious enough to ingest it.

The canteen had just closed; they were informed in loud impatient tones when they hammered on the doors, but when Sam explained the situation in panting breaths, they allowed the teenagers access to stock up with the requested items, and wished them well.

"How are we gonna find her, B-J? She could be **any**where." Tammy didn't seem to have thought this far ahead. Sam had. Giving her half the supplies, he instructed her to seek out Hank, rounding up anyone she could find on the way.

"Just in case, get him to organize a search party up the mountain. I think she was headed toward the pine groves, but she wouldn't have gone far. I'm betting she came back and is around here somewhere, so I'll start by searching the Lodges and around the camp. If you find Ritchie and the others (he recalled one of the names Al had briefed him on), send them to join me. Don't worry, Tammy, we'll find her." Silently he added, 'I only hope to God we find her in time.'

"_Ad-mi-ral?" _a soft seductive voice broke Al's concentration once more.

He grunted in response.

"_Admiral!" _the voice repeated, more insistently.

Al threw down his pen with an exasperated sigh, and rubbed his forehead. He was tired, more tired than he could remember being in a long time.

"What is it now, Ziggy?" he snapped.

"_I **am** aware that you wished to remain undisturbed, Admiral, but I have been monitoring Dr Beckett's vital signs…"_

"Sam!" Al was instantly alert, pushing himself up from his chair and heading for the Imaging Chamber. "What's wrong, Zig? Is he hurt?"

"_There is no need to panic, Admiral. As far as I can ascertain, Dr Beckett is uninjured. However, his pulse and blood pressure are both elevated, as is his adrenalin level, and he appears to be somewhat stressed. I felt you might wish to - what is it you say? -"Touch base" with Dr Beckett, in case he had need of your assistance."_

"Damn right, I do! Thanks Zig." Al hurried on with a sigh, wondering why it seemed that he couldn't turn his back on his friend for five minutes without the scientist getting himself into trouble of one sort or another.

By the time he got to the Control Room, the ever vigilant Gushie was holding the hand link out ready for him to grab without breaking stride, and the Imaging Chamber door was sliding up to admit him. He ducked under before it was fully raised.

"Gushie…" he instructed…

"Centre me on Sam" Gushie finished with him.

Al materialized in an apparently empty hallway.

"Sam?" he called.

"Aarrhh!" yelled Sam, right in his ear, as he came up behind him. "Don't do that, Al!" instinctively, the Leaper had skidded to a halt to avoid the collision that would not have occurred.

"You want I should go?" Al affected a Yiddish accent, complete with obligatory hand gestures, just as Sam had done earlier, and with equal aplomb.

"No. NO." replied Sam emphatically. "It's just a bit unnerving when I wish you'd show up and" he snapped his fingers to indicate the immediacy of the response, "you appear right in front of me like a genii from a bottle."

"You _wished_ me here? Neat trick, Sam." Al grinned. "What can I do for you, O Lord and Master?" he folded his arms; palms flat, across his chest, and bowed.

"We haven't time for your nonsense, Al" cut in Sam, curtly.

"Zig wasn't kidding when she said you were stressed, sheesh." Al retorted. "What's up, buddy?"

"I'll explain later. We need to find Becky-Lou, and fast. Can you have Gushie centre you in on her?"

"If she's within range, yeah. What's the problem?"

"Later, Al. Just find her."

Obediently, Al passed his request to Gushie, and popped out of sight.

Sam looked around, uncertain whether to resume his own search, or wait where he was for his friend's return.

He didn't have long to ponder his dilemma. Al re-appeared almost immediately, and his face broadcast the fact that he now understood Sam's concern.

"This way, Sam, she's in the ski room." He began leading his friend by the shortest route, as fed to him by Ziggy. "She doesn't look too good, buddy. What's...?"

"Is she conscious?" Sam interrupted, picking up his pace still further.

"I think so, but barely. She's pale and sweating and she's got the shakes. She looks confused, well out of it. You'd better hurry, buddy."

Sam already felt like he was going to break Bannister's recent record, but he somehow found his second wind and sprinted after his spirit guide. Finally, when Sam felt that in another minute his lungs would burst, and every muscle ached from his mini marathon, he arrived at the ski room and dashed in to find Becky-Lou slumped on one of the benches.

Sam practically collapsed next to her, panting hard. He gently eased her back into a sitting position, feeling her pulse and not liking how it felt.

Her hair stuck to her forehead with sweat, and he brushed it back, noting the distant look in her eyes.

"Becky-Lou, can you… hear me?" he asked softly, between labored breaths.

He received no reply. She seemed unaware of his presence.

Sam took her trembling shoulders, and shook her very gently, then cupped her face in his hands and tried to make her focus on his own.

"Becky-Lou? Talk to me, honey." Remembering that though he was really there as her physician right now, she needed to see him as B-J.

"Huh?" she mumbled, uncomprehendingly.

"Drink this, hon." He coaxed, offering the fruit juice he had procured up to her lips.

He held her head firmly but gently, and tilted it ever so slightly so that he could trickle a little of the liquid into her mouth without choking her.

She still appeared distant and unaware, but she was conscious. Just.

"C'mon honey, swallow for me." He encouraged, "you have to swallow."

Reflexively, she obeyed. Then she coughed, a feeble cough, which suddenly became a jerky spasm of her whole body. Sam held her close while they rode it out.

"That's my girl. It's okay." Sam intoned. "A little more now." He held the drink to her lips once more.

Suddenly, she seemed to see him, as if for the first time, and her brow furrowed in confusion, as if unsure who he was or why he was there.

"Huh?" she mumbled again.

"Try to eat a little something, hon." Sam whispered persuasively. "You need to eat something now."

He forced open the orange with his nails, squirting juice into the air, and ripping a segment from inside. He stroked her lower lip with it. "Come on Becky, open up, there's a good girl."

"Nah-uh," a slight shake of her head said 'I don't want it'. Somewhere in the back of her confused brain, a hint of defiance remained.

"Don't leave me, Becky-Lou. Stay with me, darling…" pleaded Sam, hugging her and giving her arm an affectionate rub.

That seemed to penetrate a little, and a hint of a smile creased the corner of her mouth.

"Atta girl, c'mon now. Eat something, just for me, eh?" wheedled her 'dreamboat'.

She took the slice of orange and chewed it half-heartedly. Then another and a third. Gradually she became a little more focused.

Finally, she spoke:

"Headache" she complained.

"I know, honey," sympathized Sam, offering her some cheese.

"Dizzy" she pronounced, her hand going up to her head, as she leaned into his shoulder.

"I'm not surprised," there was just an edge of criticism in his voice, as much as to say, 'what do you expect, you silly girl'.

"Scared" she sobbed softly, then suddenly the tap turned on, and the tears flowed freely again. Sam cuddled her, and reassured her, and did his best to dry her tears.

"What _were_ you thinking?" chided Sam a few minutes later, when she had eaten enough to raise her blood sugar level and was more coherent. "What were you trying to do?"

"Punish you, pig." Her voice was matter-of-fact, bereft of emotion.

"By deliberately getting yourself hypoglycemic? Becky-Lou, sweetheart, you could have **died**." Sam ignored the insult. Whether or not it had been unwittingly earned, it was all water under the bridge now.

"Guess I wasn't thinking straight." She conceded. "I thought it would be easy. That I'd just slip off to sleep and not wake up. But then I started feeling weird, and I got frightened and confused and I was so alone, and I felt so weak and I couldn't move or cry for help or anything and I… I…" she finally paused for breath, whereupon she immediately broke down in tears again.

"Its okay, Becky-Lou. I'm here now, honey. It's all over now. It's gonna be okay. You'll be fine. I'm gonna take care of you."

"Promise?" she looked up at him with huge shiny bright tear filled eyes. "Promise you'll **always** take care of me."

"I'll be here for you as long as you need me." As Sam said the words, he had the strangest feeling he'd told another girl the same thing. For some reason, the thought gave him a chill, and he shuddered. He hated making promises he was not sure he would be around to keep, and was even less sure those he'd replaced would honor. He tried to avoid making rash promises whenever possible, especially far-reaching ones, but whenever he was cornered into one, he tended to make it as ambiguous as possible. Sam Beckett did not believe in making and breaking promises lightly, as many men did. To him, they were a sacred duty. "Don't say it if you don't mean it" his parents taught him, and it was a lesson he took to heart.

"Bobby-Joe?" she looked at him questioningly as he tucked her into bed sometime later, having made sure she had eaten a proper meal, and was completely stabilized.

"What is it, honey?"

"You saved my life, didn't you?" After a brief bout of lingering petulance, he had been forgiven his earlier transgressions, and was once more her hero.

"I suppose I did."

"Was I **very** close to dying?"

"Don't worry your pretty little head. It doesn't matter now."

"No, tell me. I was, wasn't I?"

"Let's just say I wouldn't have wanted to cut it any finer. Why?"

"Cos I thought I saw an angel, telling me to hold on, that you would be right with me. Only he was dressed funny - in a loud turquoise suit. Do guardian angels dress funny?"

"You bet they do, honey - almost always." Sam laughed and shot his friend a beaming smile. Al looked uncomfortable, then offended.

"What d'you mean, funny? There's nothing wrong with this suit." He gestured up and down the length of his body.

"It was weird." Becky-Lou continued. "When I first saw you in there, just for a few moments, you were different, older - like I was seeing you years in the future. As if I'd died and you'd gone on without me."

"How _could_ I go on without _you_, honey?" It was Sam's turn to look uncomfortable, and he tried to steer the conversation away from her disturbing revelation.

She smiled at his declaration, appeased.

"You really should get some sleep now, honey." He leaned over and kissed her forehead. "Tomorrow, it'll all seem like a bad dream."

"Who are you calling a bad dream!" snorted Al, indignantly.

Sam let a slight jerk of his head tell Al that they would talk in a minute, in private.

"G'night, B-J. I love you." She reached out and held his hand, as if to stop him leaving.

"Good night, Becky, love you." He returned, easing his hand free and blowing her a kiss. "You sleep well, now, you hear?"

"Mm-hmm" she snuggled down, weary from the day's dramas, and was asleep by the time they had retreated through the dorm door, leaving Tammy to watch over her.

"She saw us, Sam!" blurted Al, when they were alone once more. "She saw **both **of us," he moved his hand to indicate first himself, then Sam, and then himself again, "as _us_!" he began pacing nervously, fingers subconsciously playing on the keys of the hand link.

"Would you calm down?" Sam replied evenly.

"But…but…"

"But nothing, Al. I admit I was a bit shocked too at first. But she said it was just for a few moments, and she obviously couldn't see or hear you just now." Sam was reasoning it out to himself as he spoke. "She said it herself, she was dying. Uh, isn't it true that people on the point of death have seen us before?" He frowned, trying to tie down the specifics of that vague recollection.

Al did remember, all too clearly: Maggie looking up at him, recognizing the prisoner she had just photographed, only older. He was troubled by the memory, and had no wish to trouble Sam with it. Sometimes, a memory like Swiss cheese could be a blessing in disguise.

"Yeah, right." Though still inwardly rattled, both by Becky-Lou and by thoughts of Maggie, Al shrugged his shoulders and pretended to be up beat again.

After Sam's earlier bout of despondency, the last thing he needed was to feel anew the guilt of Maggie's death, and Al's own extended incarceration. Sam the super genius was good at many, many things - not least of which was beating himself up over things he could not help.

Al cast around for a way to change the subject.

"Wish it had been that Tammy seeing me, she's a bit of alright…" when in doubt, resort to sexual innuendo. He'd lost track of the times it had succeeded in distracting Sam, even if it did usually earn him a disapproving look or a lecture on morality.

"Al!" Sam responded predictably.

Al smiled, accepting the rebuke with raised hands in a gesture of surrender.


	7. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

Patti was initially irritated that the newsflash had taken her sister's triumphant performance off the air. She was so close to winning, and it was frustrating that the show had been pushed aside.

As they watched, however, all thoughts of their previous trivial amusement disappeared. They sat, spellbound, as the tragedy unfolded before them:

"…._initial, unconfirmed reports claim 20 dead, over 130 injured here at City Place Station in downtown Dallas, Texas…"_ The reporter was saying for the umpteenth time.

"…_potentially many, many more…"_

The reporter was one of many standing at the ground level entrance to the station, their smart clothes tarnished with the dust from the debris, their microphones displaying a whole alphabet of News channels.

"… _including a party of disabled children…"_

"My God, how awful!" commented Brenda, her hand flying to her mouth, as they looked at the casualties being taken out of the rubble and into the waiting ambulances.

Rusty was squeezing Patti's hand reassuringly, noticing an empathic tear forming in her eye. It was a truly harrowing scene, but they were mesmerized, unable to turn away.

_"...to you live from City Place Station, where the latest information just in, tell us that the extremist faction calling themselves the Fifth Reich are claiming responsibility for the catastrophic events here today…_"

"How can anybody **boast** about causing so much death and destruction?" asked Lucille incredulously, of nobody in particular.

"…_allege to have placed a bomb just inside the north tunnel, which was triggered by the incoming train…"_

"Surely station security would have seen them in a restricted area?" Rusty gave his professional opinion, as he was wont to do. The ladies just shrugged, they didn't think of such things, assuming that there must be ways around security – after all, there always were in the movies.

By this time, all those who were still in the cafeteria had gathered around the quartet, crowding round to see what was going on.

Nobody bothered calling the Admiral back, of course. None of them linked the woman on the stretcher with their employer – there was no reason why they should. So they didn't see the need, or the desirability, to call his attention to the disaster, especially given the mood he'd been in.

"… _numbers showing on your screen now, if you suspect a relative could be involved in this tragedy…"_

A crisis centre had been set up, and volunteers were manning phones, taking details from concerned friends and frantic relatives.

As the live coverage continued, it was becoming apparent that a great many more people were trapped in the rubble, where the tri-level station had collapsed in upon itself. The terrorists had obviously chosen their location for maximum destructive impact, and they were surely not disappointed in their results.

"_Not since 9/11 has there been such a tragedy on our shores…"_

The assembled viewers began the inevitable debate on terrorism, and how to counter it – most of the men taking the macho stance, and spouting on patriotism and threats of retribution, most of the women more interested in the humanistic side, concerned with the immediate victims, and with their own feelings of insecurity in the face of such a daring strike in the heart of their homeland.

Rusty tried to reassure them by pointing out that they, at least, were probably in one of the safest places in the country – not least because he personally was responsible to no small degree for their security. Patti hugged him tight at that and kissed him and called him her own private bodyguard, which raised a few nervous giggles from the other women. Each was trying to cope in his or her own way with the horror of what they were witnessing.

Library footage was being shown of the station's grand opening, just less than eight years before. The glass 'inclinators' (inclined elevators), which were such a showpiece when they were installed, were now no more than a mass of twisted metal and broken glass. The 138-foot escalator, boasted as the longest west of the Mississippi, did not seem like so splendid a feature now that it stood between the victims and their would-be rescuers. And that would only take them as far as the mid-level ticketing area. There was still the lower level to reach.

One enterprising reporter had managed to get close to a conference that was taking place in a sheltered corner to the side of the entrance. The rescue coordinator was pouring over maps and diagrams with a representative of S A Healy of McCook, Illinois: the company who had originally excavated the tunnels. He was explaining the geological composition of the area, which was principally 80 million-year-old Austin chalk, and suggesting the best equipment to use in order to penetrate through to those trapped.

The announcer was relaying the information he overheard to the listening millions, who were hanging on every word coming from the scene, no matter how banal.

Though none of those watching at Project Quantum Leap were the ghoulish type, they could not deny that it was compulsive viewing. They were not enjoying it, not on any level, but they had to watch and listen, and soak up every detail. It was only human nature.

Some news bulletins, you could shut out as background noise as you chatted about your day at work over the evening meal. It may be dreadful, tragic, earth shattering to those in the midst of it, but it didn't really involve or affect the majority of those watching. Sad to say, a whole generation had grown up so used to seeing these things on the news every day, that if not hardened, then they were certainly desensitized to a great deal of what they saw. Something of this magnitude, however, put normal life on hold, across the country – across the world. It touched each and every viewer in a deep and personal way, whether or not they knew anyone actually at the site.

"…_it now seems likely that the disabled group may have been the primary targets for the faction…"_

The reporter put his hand to his ear, reseating his earpiece as he listened to the feed from his anchorman.

He passed on details, already known by most who followed world events, of the Fifth Reich's manifesto of anti-Semitism, and reminded viewers at length of earlier atrocities committed in their name against Jewish communities in Atlanta, Boise and Cleveland over the past year. Once again, library footage was used to show the other events – currently the bomb in the synagogue at Boise. Whilst all three attacks had been major news events, and the death toll significant, none had been on the scale of this new bombing in Dallas.

"Oh dear God, they're working their way all over the country alphabetically!" observed Brenda, sparking a new debate – where would they strike next? Why had the authorities not made this same connection, or if they had, why had the media not covered it?

"To avoid panic, presumably," reasoned Rusty. "Though if **_we_** can work it out, so can anybody else. They can't keep a lid on it forever."

"…_holiday arranged by the Jewish Women's International organization (formerly known as B'nai B'rith Women) for a group of thirty-two disabled Jewish children aged between six and sixteen…"_

At the back of the group, a late arrival to the cafeteria stiffened at the mention of this organization, and shook his head sadly. No, it couldn't be her. Not in Dallas. Could it?

"The cowardly bastards! Targeting little children. How low can they go?" Lucille was flushed with righteous indignation. She squirmed in her seat, as if itching to find the culprits and give them a piece of her mind. Several others concurred with her assessment.

It was all very well to have strong political beliefs, and to fight for them, but this was something else. This was bigotry aspiring to genocide and terrorism of the worst sort. The Fifth Reich had not one single supporter in that cafeteria hidden beneath the New Mexican desert.

On the screen they could see that more victims were being carried out of the rubble, all grey, dust-covered, with blood red highlights, some in obvious pain, some beyond all further hurt, and shrouded in once white sheets.

"…_death toll now stands at twenty-seven, including at least five of the disabled children from the Jewish group, and one of the four adults accompanying them…"_

This moved everyone listening, but against all odds, in addition to Al, one other in particular of those assembled would ultimately be profoundly affected on a very personal level in a way he was only just beginning to suspect.

More rescue workers were arriving all the time; from further and further afield as news spread of the people trapped ten stories below ground. Brave men and women who didn't hesitate to walk into the jaws of death to bring out the dead and the dying, in the hopes that some, however few, could be saved.

The reluctant voyeurs sat awestruck, in eerie silence, as the tragedy continued to unfold before their horrified eyes; though each time a survivor emerged, there was a collective sigh of relief, or a muted cheer. After a little while, it was not merely those who were romantically entangled who clung to those closest to them – almost everyone was seeking comfort from the nearest hand.

Everyone but the lone figure at the rear of the group, that is, who looked on in solitary dread.


	8. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

Monday morning dawned all too early, all too brightly and all too cold.

Sam was roused roughly by his bunk mate, Ritchie, who informed him rather too enthusiastically that it was time for breakfast, and that Hank was expecting them to be ready for practice in an hour.

Sam rose reluctantly. He hadn't slept well, and the morning had rolled round all too soon. He stretched, trying to ease the kinks in his back.

"How's the wrist?" Ritchie nodded toward Sam's still bandaged hand, making him remember the previous day's ruse, and his reason for perpetrating it. Practice in an hour was an alarming prospect.

"Uh, a bit sore." Sam replied, shrugging with mock stoicism.

Having skipped dinner the previous night, it was the rumbling in his stomach that finally provided the impetus to get him going, dragging himself to the bathroom for his morning ablutions.

While the rest of the group chatted excitedly about the possibility of a full day on the slopes, and bustled around getting themselves ready, and made comments on the relative merits of the pretty girls they had met from other teams, Sam concentrated on making hard work of getting dressed, exaggerating his 'disability' whilst trying to look like he was putting a brave face on a painful injury.

His act was very convincing. As with Hank, he had to decline the offer of assistance in changing, assuring his friends that though it may take him a little longer than usual, he hadn't needed help dressing himself since he was two years old, and wasn't about to start being babied again now.

"You sure, pal?" a boy whom Sam had learned was called Tommy asked him jovially, clapping him heartily on the back, "I can go and get Becky-Lou for you if you'd like. Maybe she'd have fun dressing up her 'dreamboat'!"

This comment, made in a suitably mocking tone - with exaggerated fluttering of eyelids - elicited hoots of laughter from B-J's buddies. Sam colored, then threw his pillow one handed at his tormentor, and exhorted the group to "get outa here and give a guy some room to move!" laughing with them in the spirit in which the tease had been intended.

Thankfully, they obliged, leaving Sam to finish dressing, and to confer with a recently arrived Observer, to whit one Admiral Albert Calavicci.

"How's Becky?" demanded the Leaper curtly, as soon as he was free to speak openly.

Concern for her well-being had been a contributing factor to his restless night. After Al had left, and he had answered countless questions from his team-mates, whom Tammy had rounded up into a posse, Sam had finally sunk exhausted into his bed and lay there reviewing the day's events. At first relieved that he had successfully saved the young girl's life; Sam suddenly realized that according to Al's foretelling of the original history, her life had not been in danger before his altercation with her. Though he had acted in good faith, and could not possibly have predicted how Becky-Lou was going to over-react to his little tumble and his attempt at reassurance, he still felt bad for having put her life in danger. Had she died, he would never have forgiven himself.

"Relax, Sam, she's fine." Al reassured him, not needing to be told that Sam's worry and guilty conscience had kept him awake. He could read it in the lines round the leaper's tired eyes.

Sam looked at his partner, searching his face for any sign of deception or false reassurance; his expression asking 'you're sure?'

"Zig says to make sure she isn't late for breakfast, but other than that, her physical prognosis is excellent, pal. Honest."

Sam's shoulders visibly shed their tension.

"That just leaves how to get her skiing again, when I haven't a clue how to ski myself!" Mused the time-traveler as he gathered his things and set off to escort Becky-Lou to breakfast.

"I'll see if B-J has any ideas on that score for you, pal." Al promised as he disappeared.

Becky-Lou greeted Sam warmly, or rather exuberantly. She had obviously slept a whole lot better than he had, and was bright eyed and bushy tailed as she bounded out to hug him tight.

"Oh, Bobby-Joe isn't it a **beautiful** morning?" she enthused.

"All the more beautiful now I see your smiling face!" He responded, partly saying what he felt his host would say, partly expressing his relief that she seemed none the worse for her close call.

She flushed slightly at the compliment, and looked up at him shyly. The way she looked at him told Sam that despite the warmth of her greeting, something from yesterday still hung between them. Though she seemed to have restored him to hero status last night, their relationship was not quite back on track.

Sam wasn't sure what she expected from him. B-J obviously knew her moods and her quirks far better than he could hope to. She had a tendency to over-react; he'd seen that up close and personal, so he would have to make sure he trod carefully and watched what he said.

He hated having to tread on eggshells so as not to make things worse, and he decided to try something that may help him to negotiate the twists and turns of their path to true love.

"Listen, Becky, I feel really bad about last night," he was telling the truth thus far, "and I gotta say that of my favorite things to do, arguing with you comes about 574th on my list."

Becky-Lou laughed at him for that, as he hoped she would, even as he wondered privately if he could be sued for breach of copyright, or plagiarism, or whatever, when he was quoting Vila some 20 years or more _before_ Michael Keating spoke the line in the Blake's 7 episode 'City at the Edge of the World'. Come to think of it, he could use his unique position to start a few law suits of his own, if only he weren't too honorable, and quite frankly too busy, to pursue the matter. The idea would probably amuse Al, though, and Sam resolved to tease him about it at the next opportune moment.

"Don't let's _ever_ fight like that again." Becky suggested, and Sam hoped they wouldn't.

"A fresh start." He agreed, which was precisely where he had been leading. Sam gave her his most disarming smile. "Tell you what, let's play a little game."

"Oooh, I love games," she grinned back at him, playing right into his strategy.

"Let's pretend we've only just met," backing up a little, he turned to face her square on, and held out his hand, "Hello, my name is Robert Joseph Parnell, pleased to meet you…?"

"Rebecca-Louise," she supplied, taking his hand and shaking it warmly, her bunches bobbing as she tossed her head with glee, "Carter; but you can call me Becky-Lou."

"And my friends all call me B-J," Sam retorted, "I hope I shall soon be able to count you one of them!"  
Becky gave him a playful punch on the arm, "Count on it, B-J!" she giggled, and stood on tiptoe to give him a swift peck on the cheek.

"Now, steady on, young lady!" Sam protested, "We've only just met, I hardly know you! What _will_ people say?"

"Oh, B-J! You _are_ funny!" Becky-Lou gave him another little punch, and Sam hoped it wouldn't become a habit. He seemed to remember another leap into a teenager where people kept doing that to him, and it had soon become a sore point, in more than one sense of the phrase.

Sam crooked his elbow, and inclined his head to suggest that she should take his arm, "Might I accompany you to breakfast, so that I may get to know you better over a pleasant meal?" He kept his demeanor very formal and upright.

She slipped her arm in his, and looked up at him:

"Certainly, kind sir," she smiled, her eyes twinkling as they headed off down the corridor.

Sam smiled a trifle smugly. Now, if he put his foot in it and said the wrong thing, he had the perfect get out clause – I'm so sorry, I didn't realize, we've only known each other a few… minutes, hours, whatever. It was a good ruse to cover the gaps in his knowledge when he supplanted another in their lives. He hoped he could remember to use it again if the situation permitted, but suspected that once he leaped, his Swiss cheese memory would rob him of the advantage.

For the moment, though, it was working like a charm, and Becky-Lou was putty in his hands, telling him lots of trivial things that could well prove invaluable.

Breakfast was nearly over when things started getting hairy again.

The rest of the Beersheba Springs group had chatted at their separate table just as carefree as before, and now got up; exhorting the pair in passing to get their tails on up to the practice slopes before Hank had THEM for breakfast.

Sam held up his bandaged hand, and said that he didn't think it'd stand the strain of wielding a ski pole, but he rose to accompany his 'new friend' to her practice, saying that he looked forward to watching Becky-Lou, as he'd heard she was rather good.

For an anxious moment, Sam thought she was about to go for an encore and rush off in a fit of histrionics. Her whole expression darkened, and she glared daggers at him.

Taking a deep breath, and praying he didn't make matters worse, he took her lightly by the hand and enquired of her gently what was wrong.

Something in his tone must have calmed her, for she took a deep breath, and told him that nothing was the matter, she simply didn't feel up to the exertion either, following her malady of the previous evening.

Sam relented, seeing the partial truth of her excuse.

He knew that there had to be more to it, though, for Al had told him she hung up her skis in the original history, and that time round there had been no hypoglycemia in the equation.

However, he decided this was neither the time nor the place to challenge her on the matter. He still had a lot more trust winning to do before he could safely broach that subject.

Sam just hoped that Hank would be as understanding of her 'playing hooky', and when he said words to that very effect; Becky-Lou looked worried, and then prevailed upon her B-J to somehow get her _off _the hook.

"B-J" had been very convincing with the Coach, and Hank had agreed that the young man should see to it that Becky-Lou took it easy today, so that she was properly rested and ready for action the next day.

She had looked sour at that, but quickly banished the expression from her face – she would worry about tomorrow when it came.

And so Sam and Becky-Lou spent a pleasant day 'getting to know each other', going for walks in the pine groves, wandering through the Lodges, sitting in the sunshine or by the fireside, chatting amicably, laughing and generally behaving like a couple of teenagers enjoying each other's company.

Sam found that when she wasn't being a drama queen, Becky-Lou was smart and witty and remarkably fun to be with. He could tell that she and B-J were a perfect match for each other, and would make a lovely couple. He was her anchor, and kept her from letting her emotions run riot. She helped him make sure he retained his inner child. There was the distinct possibility of a happy ever after here – if only he could get her to open up and face whatever it was that was making her throw away her career.

Al popped in mid-afternoon, looking strained. He confirmed Sam's hunch that B-J had married Becky-Lou in the original history, and that he had helped her weather the storms of her regrets and disappointments, but that both had felt the cloud of her unfulfilled dreams hanging over them as they muddled their way through a humdrum life.

Sam determined that he would find some way to make sure Becky-Lou reached her true potential. As yet, he had no clue as to how he might achieve this goal, and any attempt or hint to try and get Becky onto the subject met with a distinct chilling of the atmosphere between them.

Little did he know that the atmosphere would get a whole lot frostier before things could finally be resolved.


	9. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

Project Quantum Leap Headquarters

Relieved that Becky-Lou was safe thanks to Sam's quick thinking and medical knowledge, Al had returned to base nonetheless still rattled by thoughts of Maggie Dawson. He glowered at Gushie as he returned his hand-link to its recharging station, but Gushie seemed even more preoccupied than usual and didn't notice.

Al ignored Tina's cheery greeting as if he hadn't heard it, which in truth he hadn't. He was too lost in his own maudlin thoughts.

Automatic footsteps carried him mechanically back to his quarters.

Routine rummaging produced his card-key and gained him admittance.

Habitual fingers triggered his answer-phone, which droned banalities heedlessly into the ether, until a message, stark in its shocking solemnity, penetrated his moping mind, and further sank his spirits.

"Yes, this is Albert Calavicci, returning your call." Al sighed. The number that had been left on his machine had been drilling the 'busy' tone into his brain for the past hour and more.

Finally, he had a connection.

The official on the other end sought to confirm some details with him.

"Yes, that's right, though not for some years…"

"_You are still listed as the next of kin, sir." _He was informed.

"I am?" He wasn't sure why he was so surprised at that, but it saddened him that she hadn't found anyone else close enough to fulfill that role.

"I'm surprised she even has a contact number for me." Al was more or less thinking aloud.

"Really?" eyebrows arched, Al wasn't sure whether to be annoyed or impressed. "You tracked me down through our respective divorce attorneys, huh? How very resourceful!"

The voice at the other end continued to interrogate.

"No, no I haven't. I don't have a lot of time for luxuries like watching television."

Then came the crux of the matter.

"Oh, I see. Of course." He found himself nodding as he was brought up to speed. Then he found himself pacing. The familiar, subconscious, four-step pace that surfaced whenever the Admiral felt stressed.

"Can you tell me how she is?"

Al's frown deepened, and a look of great sorrow crossed his face as he listened to the particulars of her condition.

After a time, he requested: "Please keep me informed of any change, either way…"

"What was that?"

The other party repeated their query.

"No, I'm afraid that won't be possible at this time."

They remonstrated with him.

"I appreciate that, but I'm afraid there's no way I can get away from here at the moment. I'm sorry."

A further attempt was made to persuade him to change his mind.

"I know all that, and I **am** concerned, believe me…" He stopped pacing, and rubbed his forehead.

"It's out of the question, completely. But please, keep me informed."

One last thing was asked of him.

"Uh, yes. Yes, of course…" he paused, while he considered how best to phrase the specifics, "um, tell her…" he drew in a deep breath, "tell her…ah…" he began pacing again, his mind in a whirl. "If, that is uh when…_when_ she wakes up, tell her…" he shrugged his shoulders in defeat, "Just uh, just tell her I'm thinking of her, and I wish her well."

When the line went dead, Al stared at the receiver for a long time, before placing it carefully back in its cradle. Then he sank down in his huge leather armchair, and buried his head in his hands, staring mournfully and unseeing at a tiny scorched patch in the carpet at his feet, where he had dropped a lighted cigar a few days before.

How long he remained that way, he couldn't have guessed, but when Ziggy informed him that Dr Beeks wanted to talk to him about their visitor, he arose stiffly, and rubbed at an aching back. No amount of massage could ease the ache that had settled in his heart, however.

Going through the motions, Al consulted with Verbena, and interviewed young B-J again. He seemed to be adapting well to his incarceration, and bore his reluctant jailors no ill will. He repeatedly showed concern for Becky-Lou, though, and kept asking when he could see her. Both the Admiral and the Psychiatrist re-assured him that they would be reunited at the earliest possible moment.

Hearing the teenager speak of his love for Becky, a pang of regret stabbed at Al's heart, but he buried it deep, and went about his business, ever the professional.

Verbena looked at him closely, sensing something personal was troubling her boss, but that he was in no mood to open up about it. She made herself a mental note to keep an eye on him, and to be on hand in the unlikely event he should decide he needed her sympathetic ear.

Though he had nothing momentous to report, and Ziggy assured him that Sam was managing the leap quite well, Al dropped into the Imaging Chamber, where he was able to reassure Sam once more that BJ would stand by Becky-Lou no matter what, and all scenarios pointed to their having a long and loving marriage, though to what degree of happiness was relative, and conditional on Sam's successful completion of the Leap. Al tried to appear as though nothing was wrong, but he could tell by Sam's expression that the leaper saw through his façade. If challenged, he'd make up some technical mumbo jumbo to explain his stress, but lucky Becky-Lou's presence meant Sam could listen, but wasn't free to cross examine.

Seeing Becky's doe-eyed adoration of her dreamboat was more than Al could stomach, and before long he'd made his excuses and left, retreating once more to the solitude of his private B.O.Q.

In the Project canteen, Rusty's TV had become the focal point for all off-duty personnel. Reports continued to trickle in from City Place Station, and the viewers here, along with the nation at large, still cheered each new emerging survivor, and said silent prayers for those cocooned in body bags, taking their final journey.

A few workers were just now learning of the tragedy, having recently come away from busy shifts at their workstations or wherever, and wandered along to the canteen in the hopes of unwinding. Soon, they too became engrossed in the awful events as they unfolded, picking up the full extent of the disaster from the reruns of earlier footage, which played over and over, with commentary from experts in this and that, while the reporters, like every one else, waited for something else to happen. Debates both on and off the screen covered every aspect of the situation – political, social, humanitarian, moral, religious – you name it; they raised it. Nothing else was on any agenda. Neither work or relationships or the weather or whatever in the canteen; nor the latest outrageous behavior of some footballer or movie star on the screen. Other world news normally reported at length and in depth, was relegated to a tickertape bar across the bottom of the screen, and a redirection to the text pages for further details, should anyone care enough to divert their attention.

One employee at Project Quantum Leap had seen far more than he cared to of the carnage. He avoided the canteen, returning from his shift to his lonely quarters, where, mirroring Al's actions, he spent the next couple of hours on the telephone.

Again like Al, a good part of that time was spent getting 'busy line'.

His first call was to his cousin's house, where eventually he raised his aunt.

She confirmed his worst suspicions, that Miriam had indeed been one of the helpers of the group mentioned on the news. The line had been tied up as Aunt Muriel had been trying to get information from the authorities as to whether or not her daughter had been accounted for. So far, nothing definite was forthcoming, other than the confirmation that Miriam had booked her ticket for that journey.

He talked with his aunt for a while, not daring to give her the longed for reassurance that Miriam would soon be home safe and sound, since it would be too rash to assume that to be the case. Nevertheless, he offered his sympathy and support, and promised to use whatever professional contacts he may have to cut through the red tape and get the answers they sought.

"Ziggy?" He cleared his throat nervously.

"There is no need to ask, Gushie." Ziggy's vocal settings were currently in the female range, and 'she' sounded almost caring. "I have been monitoring your communications, and I am already interfacing with the computers in all the Dallas hospitals, as well as those of the rescue services. As soon as your Cousin Miriam's identity is confirmed as one of those to have been brought out of the disaster area, whether dead or alive, I will know it, and shall inform you instantly. Naturally, it would be preferable if I could report the latter to be the case."

"Amen to that," responded Gushie, "Amen to that, indeed."

While he awaited the promised bulletin from Ziggy, Gushie made several more calls to relatives whom he knew would be sharing his concerns. It sometimes took something of this magnitude to remind one how much you took family for granted. It was good to talk with some of them again, to catch up with people he'd not spoken to in months, maybe even years. Yet the conversations were strained, marred by the uncertainty of Miriam's fate.

Sometime later, Gushie stretched out wearily on his couch. Too drained both emotionally and physically to bother to take himself off to bed, he soon drifted into an uneasy slumber.


	10. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

**Monday evening**

Sam and Becky-Lou rounded off their 'getting to know you Monday' with supper in the canteen in the company of their team-mates, who obligingly joined in B-J's crazy game and treated him like a complete stranger that needed to become acquainted with them all over again. They were used to his practical jokes and way out ways, and found this every bit as amusing as the time last year when he'd pretended he was a foreign exchange student who couldn't understand a word of English.

After the meal, which Sam made sure Becky tucked into heartily, they all adjourned to one of the social areas: a huge bar room with open fire, thick pile carpet on the floor and oak beams on the ceiling, lots of easy chairs and a warm friendly atmosphere.

Becky-Lou fetched her Appalachian dulcimer, and B-J's guitar. Ritchie had a guitar of his own. One or two members of other ski teams had instruments too.

Before long, by mutual unspoken consent, a sizeable group had gathered around the fireplace, and began a spontaneous jamming session.

First to emerge were some classic ballads from the thirties and forties, to which most of the room joined in – crooning the familiar lyrics their parents had raised them on. Songs like 'Smoke gets in your eyes' brought smiles all round as the log-fire crackled and blazed in their midst. 'Thanks for the memory' had them all nostalgic about the experience of being at the try-outs, while, 'The way you look tonight' had the desired effect of getting the girls snuggling up to their boyfriends.

Most of the girls did indeed look stunningly attractive, in the simple, innocent way girls did in those days. Soft baby pink, lemon, mint green and sky blue, peach and lavender – delicate pastel shades that wouldn't look out of place in a nursery - adorned their willowy frames. Sweaters buttoned over thin white figure hugging tops, or were tied over the shoulders by the sleeves like something from the chorus line of Grease, while matching colored knee-length circular skirts with yards of net petticoats emphasized their femininity.

Bobby socks and sneakers adorned their shapely ankles, and pony tails and bunches tied up with flimsy chiffon scarves bobbed rhythmically as the girls moved their heads in time to the music.

Some wag from another team had them in stitches when he and his girlfriend insisted on serenading them with the supremely appropriate 'Baby, its cold outside',

Sam was surprised at how many of the lyrics he knew, since the songs were mostly 'before his time', and even more amazed at how many he seemed to remember despite his Swiss-cheesed memory. Though his right wrist was still bandaged against his supposed 'injury', he slipped his arm out of the sling and managed to play along with the others, strumming left-handed and adopting with ease B-J's rare style of playing 'finger guitar'.

He smiled at Becky-Lou, and he smiled to himself. He was having fun. These were as companionable a bunch of teenagers as you could hope to meet and off-piste all hint of rivalry was gone. They were just a bunch of wholesome kids having a great time.

Hank and the other coaches watched from the bar, supping beers and joining in with the singing, or chatting about the competition, and which kids they admired from each others teams, and generally being sociable.

It was a thoroughly pleasant evening.

After a while, the influence of the Tennessee crowd, who were by far the most melodious of the teams, won through over the rest, and a Country and Western flavor crept into the song choices.

Sam knew from B-J's diary that he and Becky-Lou had been brought up on a diet of Grand Ole Opry. Trips to the Ryman Auditorium in Nashville on special selected Saturday nights were the highlight of their social calendar. When one of the less rural lads dared to suggest good naturedly that Country music was dying out, and that the new rock and roll would soon relegate it to obscurity, Sam told him that Country would always have a 'grass-roots' following, and would in fact enjoy repeated revivals in popularity as time passed. He wouldn't mind betting, he attested, that by the turn of the millennium, not only would Country music still be going strong, not just in America but throughout Europe too, but that a whole channel of television would be dedicated to it! Naturally, this prediction met with some skepticism. Though programs like '_The Lone Ranger'_ were popular with audiences nationwide, they could not conceive of the demand for Country songs to that extent, nor would they have believed, if told, in the proliferation of specialist satellite channels to come.

Sam just smiled, not pressing the point. CMT would have its day.

The Tennessee Waltz had given way to the Yellow Rose of Texas, and that in its turn faded into Rosemary Clooney's 'This Old House'. Tammy did a more than fair impersonation of that good lady, and the whole room applauded her performance.

Very few of those assembled failed to join in the encore.

Thus the evening wore on, through "Island in the Sun" and beyond "Vaya Con Dios", and Sam had so completely relaxed and let his guard down that when things blew up in his face he was taken totally by surprise.

It was getting late, and one or two people were starting to drift away from the homespun concert. Conversations gradually took over among small groups, and inevitably the talk turned to the dramatic events of the previous day. Someone asked a member of the Bishop team if there was any news of Jill Kinmont, and at once Becky-Lou stopped singing to listen, even though she and B-J were currently regaling those still gathered with 'their song', the ever-popular "Too Young".

The only news was that there was as yet no news to report, though rumors varied from her having no more than a broken leg to the expectation that she would not live through the night.

Becky-Lou looked horrified, let out a gasp and turned to B-J for reassurance. She grabbed him tightly by the arm.

"She isn't going to _die_, is she B-J? Jill can't die, she just _can't_." Tears sprung to Becky's eyes, and she chewed her lip. Then she shook her head vehemently in denial. "She'll be back on the slopes in no time, won't she." It was a statement, not a question, said with such conviction that it was as if saying it could make it so.

Sam knew exactly what the prognosis was, though of course he couldn't admit it.

"I'm sure she's not about to die." He comforted her confidently, and her face lit up at the proclamation, until he qualified his statement with the addendum, "but she _was_ badly hurt. We have to face the possibility that she may not be able to ski again."

He thought he was gently preparing her for the harsh reality of what was to come, but he had forgotten for a moment how intense Becky-Lou could be, and how much she took things to heart.

"Don't say that!" she shrieked, standing up and swiping him with a flailing arm, "Don't you **dare** say that. It's not true. It's _not_ true. It **can't** be true." She stamped her foot petulantly and then turned on her heel, storming across the room and out the door, tears streaming down her face, leaving Sam staring incredulously after her, his jaw hanging, his hand rubbing a red and stinging cheek.

'Here we go again!' he thought to himself with a sigh, getting up to follow her. He remembered all too well the drastic consequences of leaving her to cool off alone last time, and he had no intention of repeating the error.

Passing his guitar to Ritchie, he headed for the door, telling Tammy he could manage when she offered to come along. The others just rolled their eyes and raised their eyebrows at him, as much as to say that they wondered why B-J put up with her. At times like this, Sam wondered too. She was certainly what you could call a 'high maintenance' partner.

On his way past, Sam had the forethought to grab their padded jackets from the hooks in the porch. It was late, it was dark, and it was very, very cold outside. As soon as he crossed the threshold, Sam could see his breath billowing out in great steaming clouds as he called out after his errant 'girlfriend'.

Becky-Lou had managed to get a big head start on him, her temper fuelling her limbs to haste; he could barely discern her retreating figure in the distance as she charged up the hill. If she heard him calling, she gave no sign of it. She neither paused nor turned her head, but continued to widen the gap between them. Sam found himself running to catch up, struggling into his jacket without breaking stride, then tucking hers under his arm.

"Becky-Lou, wait! Come back!" he yelled again, but soon realized that he was wasting his breath, and that he needed all of that in abundance for the mountaineering he'd have to undertake if he was to retrieve her. For someone who less than 24 hours ago had been almost at death's door, she was exhibiting plenty of stamina. Sam started thinking that he must be getting old, if she could be giving him such a run for his money.

After a while, Sam's pace slowed. Firstly, he was well and truly out of breath, his lungs aching as he gulped in the icy air. Secondly, they were now way off the trail, and with no lighting of any sort to guide him, Sam had to lower his eyes frequently to confirm his footing. The snow felt strange underfoot up here, and Sam found himself stumbling and struggling to keep on his feet. He alternated between looking down at his pathway, keeping his head low on his chest against the bitter wind, and looking up ahead for some sign of Becky-Lou, who had by now completely vanished from sight.

The night was cloudy, starless, and oppressive in its darkness. Sam soon lost all sense of direction and distance. He felt as if he had been climbing for miles - for hours.

The wind intensified, whisking up the fresh top layer of snow and forming spindrift, which swirled around, whipping up to a waist high frenzy. The airborne powder snow made him feel as if he were suffocating. The rush of cold air in his face brought tears to his eyes, further hindering his progress. It was like being in a sandstorm in the desert, only much, much colder.

He was chilled to the bone, despite having donned the gloves from his pocket. In the absence of a scarf he wrapped his sling like a robber's mask around his lower face to filter the cold dusty air that hurt the back of his throat as he breathed. He ached with weariness, and the temptation was strong to slip into a thick part of the forest, curl up against a tree and sleep till daylight. Nevertheless he determinedly kept going, knowing that Becky-Lou would be feeling even colder and more tired without even her coat to protect her.

Every now and then, he called her again, though his voice was thin and weak, and his throat felt dry and constricted. The sound of his voice was carried back to him on the eddying wind, and when it finally subsided, his cry was swallowed in the dull acoustics of the snowy surround. 'Where are you, Al?' he wondered to himself, needing the comfort of company almost as much as he needed the hologram's wisdom and the light the hand-link could afford him.

"_Admiral?_" Ziggy's velvety tones intruded on Al's maudlin musings. He had returned to his leather armchair, and was sitting staring as earlier, his mind dwelling on thoughts of the past and concerns of the present.

"Not now, Zig." He mumbled. "I told Tina I'd talk to her tomorrow. You try and make her see reason will you? I can't deal with her snit tonight." He made a dismissive gesture with his hand.

"_Admiral Calavicci!_" The voice was more insistent, and the tone slightly critical.

"What? Can't it wait, you inconsiderate bucket of bolts?" Al snapped.

"_Why of course, Admiral. I can see that you are extremely busy with matters of great urgency and vital importance._" Ziggy was not programmed with sarcasm, but she exuded it nonetheless.

Al merely snorted in response.

"_Of course, if your silent sulk is more pressing than the fact that I am currently predicting Doctor Beckett to have a life expectancy of less than ten minutes…?_"

"Whaaat?" Al was on his feet at once, and out of the door in 3 steps. "Why the hell didn't you say so in the first place?" he shot at the ether, knowing that Ziggy could hear and respond wherever he was.

_"As you are well aware, Admiral, protocol demands that I normally wait until I am asked. However, since that seemed unlikely in this instance and my father does not have the luxury of waiting upon your mood swings…_"  
"Can it, Zig! Just tell me what's going on, and what we have to do to save Sam."

Ziggy had apprised him of the situation by the time he arrived at Control, and once more Gushie passed him the hand-link as he made his way up the ramp to the Imaging Chamber door…

In the Project canteen, the crowd was thinning out as the news slowed to a virtual standstill. The same few bits of footage was being shown over and over again, and all that was changing were the figures in the corner of the screen showing the numbers of confirmed dead and injured, which continued to rise as more were pulled from the depths of the disaster zone. Most of those who'd gathered to watch had stuck it out for a couple of hours, hoping to see something new, something encouraging, but there came a limit to how many times they could witness the same scenes of carnage, the same bloodstained bodies and shocked faces.

When the happier group had been watching Robyn's hilarious performance, they had piled a dish high with chocolate éclairs, donuts, biscuits, sweets and treats of all kinds, which they had dipped into as they watched engrossed. Though there were still a few delicacies left, it had been totally forgotten, as the larger crowd had been riveted to the screen with its horrific images of death and destruction and suffering. Only now, as the majority moved away, Patti instinctively reached for some comfort food, and was about to close her fingers around a chocolate glazed donut when Rusty stopped her, putting a gently restraining hand of his own over hers.

"I know you're upset by all this hon, but it's no excuse to slip off the wagon now…"

Patti looked up at him, and then stared at the offending item almost in her grasp, as if surprised to see it there.

"Oh, sorry, I wasn't thinking." She squirmed a little at how close she had come to cheating on her diet, to giving in to her chocoholic cravings. Rusty had been helping her to give up chocolate, and so far she had been doing really well. His support and encouragement had made it relatively easy to resist temptation, and the steady, visible weight loss had spurred her on to continued effort. She was feeling fitter, more energetic already, and the thought of being able to order her wedding dress a size or two smaller was enough to keep her well motivated.

"I think we need a break from this doom and gloom too." Rusty decided, rising to his feet. "I'll leave the set here in case anyone wants to drop in for an update."

The one or two still left nodded their thanks, and assured him his property would be safe.

"C'mon Patti," Rusty leaned in and whispered in her ear, "let's see if I can find a substitute comforter for you to wrap your tonsils round, one that isn't fattening!"

"Ralph Kincaid!" Patti pretended to be shocked at his blatant hint, and swiped him playfully on the arm. "Hush your mouth, somebody might hear you!"

Far from complying with her request for tact, Rusty led her out whispering further suggestions, such as wondering if she was up for a workout to burn off a few calories. She knew full well he wasn't suggesting several laps on her exercise bike. A part of her felt guilty for even thinking of being so self-indulgent when so many people were dead and dying and suffering. Yet there was nothing to be gained for those poor souls in her making herself more miserable, and a romp with Rusty was too tempting a prospect to pass up. Sad yet true was the saying that life went on…

For the second time this leap, Al appeared like a genii from a bottle in response to Sam's silent summons, and for the second time, it startled him.

"How do you do that?" Sam hissed.

"What?" Al looked about him innocently, though he guessed exactly what Sam was referring to. Another time, he'd have strung it out, made a big play, done some heavy duty teasing about being a mind reader and all that. But time - as Ziggy had so bluntly pointed out - was a luxury they did not have.

"Listen, Sam…" Al started to warn his friend of the impending danger, but Sam interrupted him, not heeding his urgent tone.

"However you got here so fast, Al, I'm glad you showed up. Have Gushie centre you on Becky-Lou. She's run off again and…" Sam was gabbling in his haste to seek help.

"No need Sam, she's right over there." Al retorted instantly, shining a light from his hand link as he had once done in a Church, pinpointing the runaway's location a short distance away.

Immediately, Sam was off, stumbling over the snow to reach her.

"Careful Sam!" Al called after him; mindful of Ziggy's dreadful prediction, and the impending deadline, but Sam wasn't listening. Having spotted his quarry, Sam had got his second wind and he dashed away, calling to Becky-Lou at the top of his frozen lungs.

She heard his call and turned around, torn between her continued anger and her relief not to be alone out here. She was not yet ready to confess the latter, however.

"GO AWAY B-J" she yelled even louder than he had - though by now he was right next to her - and stamping her foot again. "LEAVE ME ALONE!"

"No Sam!" Al was yelling too, all too aware that he was the only one safe to do so.

Sam ignored her request, and hurriedly helped her into her jacket, fastening the front against the cold despite her attempts to fight him off.

"SAM! Will you listen to me a minute?" Al shouted desperately, trying to make himself heard above the noise of Becky's renewed tirade, "You have to tell her to be quiet, Sam! She's gonna start an…."

Too late - the warning came too late.

As Al spoke the words, the echoes of her yells split and loosened the weakened layer of sugar snow beneath the recent heavy fall, thus shifting the top layer from its resting place, causing huge slabs to break away from somewhere way above them and slide downhill. An ominous rumble reached their ears …

"…AVALANCHE!" Al finished, somewhat redundantly, as Sam - picking up on clues both natural and holographic - reached out and grabbed Becky-Lou by the arm, ducked his head under her shoulder to hoist her into a fireman's lift and began to run with her back down the mountain as fast as his weary legs could carry him.

Becky-Lou, as yet ignorant of the reason for Bobby-Joe's sudden action, pounded on his back and protested loudly in his ear –

"Put… me… **down**!" each word accompanied by a sharp blow with her fist to his kidneys, while her legs continued her protest, kicking as if running away from him, feet flying in the air, striking him in the groin and all but felling him in their vehemence. Sam winced, and hitched her up higher to lessen the impact of her blows. The shift in equilibrium nearly toppled them both over backward, and Sam found himself slipping and stumbling in the snow, fighting to maintain his forward momentum. He gripped her tightly around the back of the knees, and begged her to trust him.

Becky-Lou raised her head to complain again, and in so doing looked back over his shoulder whereupon she shrieked in terror. The pitch-black night seemed to illuminate suddenly as huge chunks of brilliant white snow began careering down the slope toward them, descending upon them in a cloud of billowing powder, awesome in its power and speed. Sam ploughed onward, exhorting her in a rough whisper to make as little noise as possible lest they dislodge more slabs.

"You can't outrun it Sam! Head for the trees!" advised Al, leading off in the suggested direction and shining his hand-link for Sam to follow.

"_The weather conditions have resulted in the soft slab avalanche pulverizing into a powder avalanche_." Ziggy informed, as if she were giving a lecture to the meteorological society. "_This type of avalanche is normally accompanied by an intense shock-wave, can travel at speeds of up to 45 meters per second - or 162kph - and carries with it a high risk of suffocation by anyone overtaken by it. Dr. Beckett's best defense is to grab and hug a tree_."

Al relayed this last information to Sam, minus the irrelevant technical details.

Sam nodded to signify that he had heard and understood, and scrambled the last few feet to the tree line, still hefting the now compliant Becky-Lou on his shoulder.

It was with some relief that he lowered her, having finally reached his destination. She may have been slight of frame, but the effort had tired him nonetheless. He put her down as close as he could get her to the first aspen tree he came upon, and in one move turned her to face it.

"Hold tight!" he instructed, having to raise his voice more than he was comfortable with to make himself heard above the roar of the snowy tidal wave that was hurtling ever nearer.

Trusting in her dreamboat, Becky-Lou did as she was bid, and clasped her hands around the trunk of the tree, which she could just manage to girdle. Sam positioned himself directly behind her to protect her from the chilly blast, and encircled the tree with his own arms just below hers.

"Keep your head down." Sam advised, bracing himself for the impending impact.

Though it was indeed imminent, Sam would have done better to take a few precious extra seconds to choose a heftier tree a little deeper into the woods. As it was, the preceding shock wave Ziggy had mentioned but Al had failed to warn about, hit them with an intensity they would not have believed, rocking their anchor alarmingly and all but uprooting it.

Becky-Lou panicked and let go of the wildly swaying tree, her hands flying behind her and her body following the impetus of her limbs. The shock of yet another slap in the face, coupled with the pressure of her torso slamming against his were enough to prize Sam's own hands from the lifeline he had been clinging to, and together their two bodies were flung backward to the ground, Becky-Lou on top of Sam - the wind knocked out of both of them.

"Sam!" cried Al in alarm. Then, seeing the avalanche was descending ever nearer, he switched into autopilot, and - hitting his hand link - sought instant advice on how best to retrieve the situation.

"Roll Sam!" Al bent close to his fallen comrade and gesticulated wildly to make his meaning and the direction clear.

Sam reacted instinctively, grabbing Becky-Lou round the waist to keep them from being separated, and rolling in the direction indicated.

Thus the two went tumbling helter-skelter down the slope, Sam barely in control of steering them along their desperate flight path, until Al drew his attention to an outcropping they were about to slide over.

"It's just a short drop at the end, Sam," Al informed him, "then you'll have to reverse sharply and get into the hollow before the snow overtakes you. I'll warn you when, but you'll only get one chance…"

Sam was too busy to reply, or even nod this time, but Al knew he understood. In any case, there was no more time for further discussion, as their destination was upon them.

"Here we go, Sam, drop and roll – **NOW**!"

Gravity took care of the drop without any assistance from Sam or Becky-Lou. As soon as they hit the ground, Sam altered course as instructed, and they rolled back along the lower level, into a small natural cavern.

Even before their inward momentum had ceased, the tumultuous snow-chute cascaded over the precipice down which they themselves had plummeted a mere moment ago, and continued on its inexorable way down the mountain, leaving behind enough of itself to effectively seal them in.


	11. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

Al followed them inside, unhindered by the closing of the aperture. He had to crouch so that his head didn't vanish through the 'roof' since the cavern was not quite high enough to stand upright in.

"Everyone okay in here?" he asked cheerily, pleased with himself that he had managed to prevent the pair from being buried alive, and fully expecting an affirmative answer once they got their breath back. He moved the handlink round from side to side until its gaudy lights illuminated the pair, for the benefit of the leaper and himself.

Sam loosed his hold on Becky-Lou and disentangled their limbs, then proceeded to check them both over for injuries. He pulled off his gloves for greater dexterity and stuffed them back in his pockets.

Becky-Lou let out a little whimper.

"Are you hurt?" Sam was instantly alarmed and attentive, kneeling up to one side of her and leaning over to look closer at her prostrate form.

"I – I don't think so, not really." She sniveled. Rolling onto her back, she sat up and pulled her knees up in front of her. They were both grazed, but not deeply, as were her palms. "They sting a bit." She flinched as Sam examined her legs for further damage.

"Nothing broken." He decided, and then turned his attention to the top end of his patient, looking in her eyes for signs of concussion or any other undesirable conditions. "Does your head hurt at all, or your neck?" He put his hand gently round behind her head to feel for swelling and/or knotted muscles.

"Nah-uh." Becky shook her head, "I'm fine, thanks to you. Again!" She looked into his eyes adoringly, and then suddenly mirrored his move by grabbing his neck both sides with her fingertips and pulling down his bandana, then locking him into a passionate full-on-the-lips kiss.

"Ahh, the gallant knight gets his reward from the rescued damsel!" chuckled Al, lighting a celebratory cigar.

Sam couldn't have replied if he'd wanted to, he could barely breathe. He tried to pull away before she brought him tumbling down on top of her, and ended up rocking back to sit on his haunches.

"Aaarrhh!" A hasty readjustment had him sliding sideways, shifting his weight onto his posterior and reaching down to grab his left foot.

"-Sam what is it?" questioned Al in chorus with Becky-Lou's

"-B-J, what's wrong?"

"Must have happened when we fell," Sam replied, almost to himself. The injury had passed unnoticed at first, numbed by the cold and blotted out by the adrenaline rush of the narrow escape and his concern for Becky-Lou. He was all too aware of it now though.

It was poetic justice he supposed – it served him right for his earlier deceit. His ankle was badly sprained, and swelling up rapidly. Before long, his shoe was unbearably tight, and although he knew it was probably a bad idea, he gingerly removed it, and the thick sock he wore beneath. His discolored ankle throbbed painfully. Becky-Lou gasped at how much it had ballooned in size. 

Al frowned. "Oowwie buddy, I bet that smarts."

Ignoring his friends trite comment Sam deftly unbound his wrist, and with Becky-Lou's help he tightly re-applied the bandage to support his injured foot.

Having consulted his hand link, Al confirmed Doctor Beckett's self-diagnosis.

"Ziggy says it's just a nasty sprain, Sam, not a break, thank God." Al drew deeply on his cigar to help steady his nerves.

There was no way he was going to able to fit into his shoe again, but Sam carefully eased the sock back on, though it made him wince with pain to do it. It was better than exposing his toes to almost certain frostbite, which was still a distinct possibility in any case.

So was hypothermia - especially since their clothes were damp through from their tumble in the snow (conducting 250 times as much heat away from their bodies than if their clothes had been dry) - and with it the risk of dehydration. They needed to drink; to replace lost fluids. He was worried about Becky-Lou's sugar levels too. He remembered that during the day she had stashed some candy bars in her coat pocket, and he encouraged her to turn them out so that they could take stock of supplies. She had three and a half bars, all high in sugar content. Not knowing how long it would take him to dig them out, he decided to ration them, but broke a chunk off the half bar and made her nibble on it. Though their helter-skelter ride down the mountainside had burned up a lot of Sam's energy, he declined to join her in her snack.

She needed no prompting to don the mitts that had also come from her pockets.

Ramming his hands into the pockets of his own parka Sam felt B-J's cigarette lighter, the one Becky-Lou had bought him for Christmas. Raising himself up as far as his bad foot and the low ceiling of the overhang would allow, Sam picked out a large stalactite and gently applied the flame to its tip, catching the precious drops of liquid in the cup of his other hand.

"Here, drink." He instructed Becky-Lou. She obeyed unquestioningly.

He took the next dose for himself.

"Best preserve this for later." He declared, putting the lighter off, unsure how much fuel remained. After the brief welcome glow from the tiny flame, the cavern seemed darker still.

"I'm scared, B-J," Becky confessed, snuggling up to Sam, trembling like an aspen tree in a strong breeze. Sam knew that cold, as much as fear, was making her shake. He removed his padded jacket, and wrapped it snugly round her bare legs.

"Don't worry," he reassured her, rubbing her arms to improve the circulation, "the worst is over now."

He looked to Al for confirmation, even as he crawled back to the entrance to ascertain how thoroughly they had been entombed. His foot throbbed with every inch he moved, but he resolutely disregarded the pain.

Al obligingly lit his way with the beam from the hand link.

Becky-Lou called after him, not wanting to be separated in the pitch dark of her perspective. He told her to follow, but not to get too close to where he would be working, as he didn't want to accidentally bury her!

Whilst Al attempted to coax the relevant information from a predictably uncooperative Ziggy, Sam began digging at the snow wall. He'd barely penetrated a couple of inches when his fingers began to ache with the cold and damp.

"Becky-Lou, throw me my gloves, please," he called back over his shoulder, and she obliged, aiming at where she thought his voice had come from. She was a remarkably accurate shot, as one of them caught him on the back of the head.

"Thanks, hon." He offered, his tongue only slightly in his cheek.

Once he'd put them back on, Sam began scooping the snow vigorously, like a dog digging for a particularly succulent bone. The exercise helped to warm his chilled bones. Al tapped his cigar, and ash fell from the end, vanishing into the snow Sam was shoveling.

"Let me help, B-J," suggested Becky-Lou after a few minutes. Sam hesitated, and then decided it may help to warm her too.

"Okay, but if you get tired or dizzy, you stop and have some more candy, understand?"

"Surely." She conceded.

"Don't call him Shirley!" Al responded automatically with a chuckle, remembering the standing joke from one of his favorite comedy films. Sam shot him a confused look, but didn't bother waiting for the explanation, instead returning to the task at hand. Soon the two of them had settled into a rhythm, and the hole grew deeper and wider. Sam expected at any second to break through to the surface, but the further they dug, the more unending the barrier appeared to be.

After a while, Becky was having obvious trouble keeping up with him, though to her credit she didn't complain. He called a snack break, once again declining to join her. She protested that he needed to keep his strength up too, but the last thing Sam needed was her slipping into a diabetic coma half way down the slope. He didn't think that he had the energy to carry her, especially not with how his foot was throbbing. He'd have enough trouble walking as it was.

He decided it was best for her to retreat back into the main chamber of the cavern, and told her to shore up the entrance of their escape chute by packing the snow he was shifting into a tight wall. She was unlikely to manage a very thorough job, but it was a precautionary measure rather than an essential, and it gave her something to do where she could feel useful and work at her own pace.

Sam had disappeared waist deep into the blockade, and his digging slowed as weariness crept upon him. He continued valiantly though, vanishing further within his tunnel, inch by inch. He kept talking to Becky and making sure that her answers were coherent. So far, he was content that they were each holding up pretty well, though to Al, both were starting to sound ever so slightly slurred in their speech.

Sam's gloved hands, saturated by snow, were too uncoordinated. He pulled off the gloves with his teeth, but working with bare hands, his circulation soon failed. Pausing to ram his hands under his armpits in an attempt to warm them helped to return the circulation, but with the blood flow came excruciating pain.

If he could just break out of this icehouse and get them down the rest of the mountain side, they could go back to that lovely blazing fire and get their chilled hands round some nice big steaming mugs of hot cocoa. The thought spurred Sam on to renewed effort.

"That'll do for now, Sam." Al instructed him suddenly, much to his relief. He ached all over from his efforts, and the numbing cold. Nevertheless, he was puzzled that his friend should tell him to stop.

"I know I'm close, I can feel it." Sam enthused. "Just give me a minute or two more; I'll have us on our way in no time." Sam continued to shovel slowly.

"Best not, Sam." Cautioned Al. "Ziggy says it's well below zero out there now, and the wind is so bitter you'd both freeze to death before you got fifty paces. You'd most likely get lost in the dark too. Ziggy gives odds of 93 percent that you should wait it out until morning. Your instinct is good; you're within a couple of inches of the surface. Enough to keep the wind out for the night, but not so much that it'll be hard work to finish tomorrow when the rescue team are outside to guide you back." Al looked away for a moment. Then he turned back and grinned at the leaper with practiced joviality.

"Hey, buddy, it'll be just like the old days, when we were carving out the Imaging Chamber, remember? You know, how we'd work half the night in that cavern, and then sleep where we dropped, 'cos we were too tired to haul our butts back to bed…"

Sam shook his head. He couldn't remember much about the Project due to the Swiss cheese effects of leaping, but more than that, he was having trouble remembering anything at all. He was so tired. It had been a very long day.

The penetrating cold had helped to deaden the pain from his foot, but it was still a nagging ache.

Reversing out of his tunnel, Sam wriggled over to where Becky-Lou had been working. She wasn't working now; she was eating the last piece of the last bar of candy.

"Time to go?" she mumbled.

"Not yet, hon." Sam contradicted. "I don't know about you, but I'm too bushed to hike down the mountain right now. Time for a quick rest first."

"Good thinking, Sam. No need to worry her with the dangers out there."

"Huh?" Sam looked bewildered, not comprehending what his holographic friend was babbling about.

"Sure, if you say so." Becky-Lou didn't seem bothered either way. She had snuggled back under Sam's jacket, and now pulled it tighter round her legs.

She shivered violently.

Sam was shivering too.

Now they had stopped the physical exertion, the chill of the wee small hours was seeping into their bones, despite the windbreak that was still in place.

Becky-Lou's teeth started to chatter.

Sam rubbed at her arms and legs again, getting the blood flowing to warm her up. He rubbed vigorously at her stomach and back too, to make sure her core temperature kept pace.

When he'd rubbed her torso and thighs until he was breathless from the effort, he asked, "H-how does th-that f-feel? Any w-w-warmer?"

"A- a- a little," her teeth were still chattering, though not as loudly.

Sam's own hands were trembling uncontrollably like a drunk with the DT's.

Sam was a good enough doctor to realize that it was no longer a question of whether or not they would succumb to hypothermia, but how badly. He calculated they were already in the mild stage, deep-body temperatures of between 34 and 35 degrees. He had to do everything in his power to minimize the dangers of deterioration.

"T-t-t-time t-to ap-ply s-s-s-some SB-B-W, I th-th-think" he declared through his own chattering teeth.

"SBW? Wh-what on-n earth is th-that?" Becky-Lou wondered aloud.

"ESS…B-B-B…Double...W. Sh-shared b-bodily w-warmth." Sam explained. "We s-sort of ins-sulate each other from th-the c-c-cold. Reduce the s-surface area for the cold air to at-attack. Here, y-y-you lie d-down near the snow bank we've cre-created. Tight p-packed like that, it's quite a g-good insulator – th-think of igloos. Okay, now I'll lie d-down b-behind you in a sp-spoon hu-hug."

"Spoon hug?" Becky-Lou knew the cold was muddling her thoughts, but she swore she'd never heard Bobby-Joe talk so weird before.

"Yeah, we sn-snuggle t-together with our bodies curled up, like th-this, like spoons in a cutlery tr-tray." Sam cinched his body in behind Becky's, encouraging her to bring her knees up towards her chest and curl up as tight as possible, covering her legs with his jacket again. He matched his position as closely as he could to hers, and curled his arm around her waist.

"Cosy." She giggled, and grabbed his wrist, planting his hand further north, up under her coat, and giving it a squeeze, so that he was forced to knead her round breast.

"That's better." She breathed, almost seductively, twisting her head round to kiss his nose.

"Oooh boy!" Sam hastily removed his hand from her soft and yielding bosom, though not before he'd felt her firm, erect nipple (whether from arousal or from the cold he couldn't say.) He was perturbed at his own body's reaction to her closeness, and her willingness - nay eagerness to encourage him, and the sensual smell of her hair…

"Ooooh boy!" he repeated, torn between the desire to retreat, and the desire to respond, and the self loathing that he should even _think _of desiring to respond.

'Back off B-J!' he silently told the leapee within him. 'I can do without _your _rampaging hormones right now, I've got enough to worry about.'

"This is n-neither the t-t-time, nor the p-place, honey." He told Becky-Lou firmly, soothing her hurt expression with a peck on the cheek. He didn't want another attack of her histrionics.

"But… but what if this is the…the only time we have, B-J? What if we die - here, t-tonight? I wanna… make love to you. I want you… to make love… to me. I want to be yours - completely. I don't wanna d-die without knowing what it is like to make love with you."

All the time she spoke, she was planting kisses on his face, and had slipped a hand down behind her back to explore his inner thigh, and squeeze his buttocks, whilst gyrating her own to rub against and tantalize his instinctively swelling manhood.

"Oooooh b-boy!" Sam hadn't felt this disturbed by a leapee's influence since Lee Harvey. If he hadn't known the importance of maintaining their body temperatures, he'd have scuttled as far away as their little prison would allow. Despite his loins urging him to go ahead, he had no intention of taking advantage of her.

"C'mon, Bobby-Joe. I'm sure it'd warm us up real g-good." She purred, "In fact, I'm already getting heated." Becky-Lou started unfastening her jacket, and trying to rip off her clothes, kicking off his jacket from round her legs.

"She's really got the '_hots'_ for you, Sam." Teased Al.

Sam realized with dread that she had already slipped into the moderate hypothermic stage, where victims often become convinced they are too warm instead of too cold, and behave irrationally - hence her wantonness. Every incidence of hypothermia was unique, and consequently it was virtually impossible to gauge or predict its progress accurately.

"M-maybe so, but we'd c-cool d-down a lot f-f-faster afterwards," he told her. That was a fact. Skin to skin contact at chest level may be the most efficient way of sharing body heat, but the loss of heat from removing their clothes was liable to more than counter it here, as would the natural heat loss that followed the activity she was promiscuously proposing, particularly for the male in the partnership.

Sam fought to get Becky-Lou bundled up in her clothes again, despite her abusive objections. Though still damp, they were better than exposing her to the cold air of their cavern. She struggled and protested, but feebly, pouting when he won the fight and had her cocooned again.

"Besides," Sam insisted, "we're _not_ gonna die. I'm gonna get you out of here, I promise. And when the t-time is right we'll f-find someplace more romantic for our f-first time. I want it to be sp-special, n-not like th-this."

'And I want it to be you and the real B-J - preferably on your wedding night.' He added to himself.

During this exchange, Al had been struggling to control his amusement at Sam's discomfort, whilst feeling real sympathy for his dilemma. Lucky for Becky-Lou she was coming on to the ultimate Boy Scout. And boy was she coming on strong. The real B-J would probably have had less self-control, and run with his urges, which they would most likely both have regretted in the morning. Except of course that they never got in this fix in the original history; but had they done so, chances are Becky-Lou would have been right and this would have been their last night together.

Al had read Sam's changing expression as his friend glanced at him; a pleading "how do I get out of this one?" look, followed by a "don't you dare make any lewd comments" reproaching look. Though she was undoubtedly a 'looker', and Al was rarely one to pass up the opportunity of a romantic encounter, he knew that in Sam's place, he too would have declined the tempting invitation.

"Change the subject, Sam. Play charades or something," was the best he could offer.


	12. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

…_"Gushie?_" the voice was uncharacteristically soft and gentle, almost apologetic.

Gushie stirred and mumbled, obviously dreaming of happier times with his cousin Miriam. A slight smile creased the corners of his mouth, making his moustache twitch.

"_Gushie…I…_" still soft; the voice, normally official to the point of officiousness was hesitant.

"Hnuh?" Gushie rolled over on his couch, but didn't fully waken.

In a moment of uncommon, distinctly human sensitivity, the parallel hybrid computer whispered –

"_Never mind, my friend, what I have to tell you will keep a while longer. Sleep now; sleep and dream your sweet naive dreams._"

"Thirsty," mumbled Becky listlessly - not for the first time. Sam melted a little more ice, and poured it gently into her mouth. She needed food, but the candy wrappers had long ago been licked clean.

She had thankfully not had a repeat vision of her 'angel', which gave Sam hope that she was not yet beyond help. She hadn't even shown any awareness of the beam of light Al had emanating from the handlink - which was resting on his lap - and shining upward and outward in an eerie fan.

"What more can I do, Al?" Sam whispered, though she was too far out of it to notice anyway

"Nothing, buddy." Al wished he could be more constructive.

Sam looked horrified, he'd expected… he didn't really know what he expected, but this sounded frighteningly negative. "Is she… is she going to…?"

Sam was suddenly dreadfully afraid he was going to lose her.

He daren't voice his worst fear. He didn't need to, Al understood.

"Not necessarily. But Ziggy says if you keep trying to keep both of you awake, you'll certainly fail, and you'll both die. Let her sleep. If you can stay with-it for the next few hours, I can tell you when the rescue team gets close; then you can dig through and get their attention. Ziggy puts pretty good odds on the paramedics being able to revive her."

"Pretty good odds?" Sam knew that if they weren't stated categorically, they were way lower than he wanted to hear.

Al squirmed and avoided Sam's penetrating gaze. Then he stated firmly:

"A whole lot better odds than the alternative, buddy. Sorry, that's the best I can give you." It tore him up to see just how little chance the super-computer was giving them of success on this one. Yet, however fragile the hope, he'd cling to it, and ensure that Sam did the same. After all the odds had been as bad on his last leap, when Sam was being tossed around in that huge cement mixer, and yet Al had got him out then. The Observer had every intention of making sure Sam made it this time too, whatever it took.

Sam continued to sip water at intervals, as much to help him stay alert as to assuage his thirst. He snuggled up to Becky-Lou in-between times; trying to use what meager body heat he had left to lend her vital warmth.

"Talk to me, Al – h-help me stay awake. I'm so-o t-t-tired."

"I know, buddy, but you gotta stay with me, okay? What do you want to talk about?" Al had made himself comfortable sitting cross-legged on a level with Sam's floor, since stooping over had been giving him a crick in the neck.

"Dunno. How's things with Tina?" Sam picked on the first thing that came to mind.

"Not so good, she's sulking with me cos of Ruthie." Al replied, without thinking.

"Ruthie? Is she on the project? Should I remember her? When will you learn, Al?"

"No, no. I am not cheating on Tina, honest!" Al hastened to defend himself. For all sorts of reasons, including Sam's own rules on not revealing anything from Project time that he didn't already know, Al was normally very strict about keeping details from Sam. Minor details like the fact that he had a wife waiting for him back home. There was usually a very good reason for his silence, too. Even if Donna hadn't insisted that Al keep her presence a secret, Al doubted if he would have tormented his friend with the knowledge. It would have hampered him in his Leaps, and increased his yearning to be home to even more unbearable proportions.

There were times when Al's compassion (which ran just as deep as Dr Beckett's, but was better hidden) got the better of him, and he let something slip. Like Sam's last name. But that was generally for a very good reason too and always had Sam's best interests at heart.

Now, Al's slip could easily have been covered with one of his colorful stories, but a tiny voice inside him said that he was entitled to be a little bit selfish, that Sam owed him that much. He was always there for Sam, did his best to offer assistance, advice and support.

He was glad to do it. He had so much to be grateful to Sam for.

Yet he really missed having Sam there for him in _his _times of trouble, like now. Despite the Leaping, and the Swiss-cheesing of his brain, Sam still tried to help, when he knew help was needed, like suggesting how Al could deal with his noisy neighbor, but it wasn't the same, and the need for secrecy and discretion meant that Al had to shoulder many a burden alone.

The small voice in him now whispered seductively: 'what would it hurt to tell Sam what's on your mind? What harm could it do?'

Al couldn't think of an answer to that. Besides, not only would Sam probably forget all about it when he Leapt, he was so addled by the cold, that he most likely wouldn't remember any of it in the morning anyway.

Sam could see Al was struggling to decide whether or not he should elaborate. "I'm not gonna push, Al, but I can tell something's eating you. So if and when you wanna talk about it, you know where to find me, okay? I'm sure not g-going anywhere!"

Al decided that giving Sam another problem to focus on would probably be doing him a favor. So he really wasn't being selfish at all.

"Ruthie was my third wife, Sam" he began, softly, having trouble finding the words to explain.

"Was? Oh, Al, has she died?" Sam jumped to the obvious conclusion.

"No, no… I don't think so… at least uh not yet…" Al was speaking fast, trying to think faster. …"I should have said Ruthie is my third ex-wife."

"But, she's ill, maybe dying?" Sam could see his friend was troubled, and his heart went out to him. "What is it, cancer?" he asked sympathetically.

"No - nothing like that. She is a voluntary worker for B'nai B'rith Women, a Jewish organization. Sorry, they're called Jewish Women International now, I keep forgetting. Don't hold with all this changing names, myself. B'nai B'rith was good enough for the men and for the women too for nearly a hundred years…"

"Ruthie?" Sam reminded Al, trying to get him back on track.

"Oh, yeah, sorry. Just one of my pet peeves." Al countered.

"Anyway, she does a lot of charity work with kids, making up for not having any of her own, I guess…" Al tailed off, musing.

"I thought… I was starting to remember something…" Sam's brow furrowed in concentration. "Yeah, I was a Rabbi… hey, I was a Rabbi!" Sam smiled at the image. "You said…y-you said… Ruthie made great gefilte fish. No, that wasn't it…"  
"But she did – does!" Al caught himself using the past tense again. Though he and Ruthie were most definitely in the past, he couldn't bear to think that she may not have a future.

"I remember now, you said something like _'I never realized how much family meant to me until after Ruthie was gone_.' I guess I assumed you guys had children and I just didn't recall."

"I've never had a kid, Sam." Al stated, wistfully. "Time was, I thought that was a good thing, what with me on tour of duty, or off in space or whatever. Now, I'm starting to wonder what I've been missing out on. It was the breaking of me and Ruthie, that's for sure." Al hadn't intended to open up in quite so much detail, but having started, he found that he couldn't stop.  
"She wanted children, and you didn't?" Sam's words were still slurring, but getting caught up in Al's tale was certainly helping him to focus.

"Well, yeah, but it wasn't as simple as that. You see she eventually wore me down, talked me into trying. She'd have made a wonderful mother…" Al drifted into reverie again. Sam could tell that his friend still had strong feelings for this woman, although he would probably never admit it, not even to himself, not in a million years.

"I think you'd have made a pretty neat father, too, Al. I've seen you with little ones, like…" he took another sip of water as he struggled to remember. There had been a baby once, something about sock puppets? And a little girl, what was her name… "…Teresa?"

"Don't know about that" rejoined Al, modestly. "But I'm beginning to wish I'd had a chance to find out. Guess I'm mellowing in my old age, eh?"

"What happened, Al, you chicken out?"

"Not at all!" Al was offended by the suggestion. He'd never ducked a challenge in his life. "We tried. And tried. And tried. At first, we had a lot of fun trying…" Al waggled his eyebrows Groucho Marx style.  
"**Al!**" cautioned Sam, not wanting him to pursue that particular line of reminiscence.

Al sniggered, then "Long story short. It just didn't happen."

"She blamed you?"

"At first. She said that sub-consciously I didn't want it to happen, so I wasn't putting my all into it." Al looked hurt at the memory. "We had some real doozy rows over it. Ruthie was never one to mince her words!"  
"Must've been horrible." Sympathized Sam.

"Yeah. Got worse though. We finally went to the quacks. Turned out after all their tests and stuff, it wasn't me firing blanks at all. As if it would have been! I mean I've been in the military, I've been an astronaut, how much more manly can you get? Anyway, Ruthie had some problem in her uh tissue or - or, tubes or something. Never did understand all that medical mumbo jumbo. Upshot was - she couldn't ever have kids. Not with me or with anybody else." Al looked like he was about to tear up at the painful memories, and was fighting for control, but Sam realized that he had never really addressed these issues, and needed to get this out of his system.

"So she didn't leave you to start a family elsewhere, then. Were you against adoption?"

"Pretty much, But she could probably have talked me into that too, if she'd tried a bit harder. What split us up was that **I** couldn't see the tragedy in us not having kids, not like she did. I was happy with just the two of us. She said I was relieved it hadn't happened, and I guess at the time I was. Called me heartless, she did, and I probably was. I never stopped to appreciate how much it meant to her, not until it was way too late. I was too busy with my own selfish desires and ambitions…"

"Don't Al, you're not…"

"You didn't know me back then, Sam. Don't make excuses for me. I know I made mistakes. Bad ones." Al fell to musing again. He got up to stretch his legs, not bothering to align his image with the confines of the cave. He paced backward and forward a few times, muttering under his breath.

Al shook his head, and then shrugged, "It's all a long time ago."

Sam left him for a while with his thoughts. Then he felt himself nodding off, and remembered that they were supposed to be talking to keep him awake. He sipped some more water, and would have splashed some on his face, were it not for the risk of frostbite. He also realized that Al hadn't reached the punch line of his story. Something was happening with Ruthie back in Al's present. Something bad.

"Al," he breathed gently. "Al?"

"Sorry, Sam, you okay?" Al turned around guiltily; cursing himself when he saw how close his friend was to drifting off to sleep.

"It's okay, Sam, I'm here. Talk to me, buddy." He knelt by Sam's side.

"I'm awake, Al." Sam assured him, though he yawned widely, and his eyelids were drooping. "Go back to your story, Ruthie's charity work?"

"Oh, yeah. Well, it seems she and some of her friends from the JWI were taking a group of some thirty odd disabled kids on a cross-country holiday. Riding the Texas Eagle train from their home in St Louis all the way to LA, taking in all sorts of things on the way…"

… Sam listened with mounting horror to the tale of death and destruction, and how Al had been oblivious to it until he returned the ominous phone call.

Sam expressed his loathing for the perpetrators of such an atrocious deed, and his heart went out to the victims and their families. Al told him in a few choice words what he would like to do to the members of the Fifth Reich if he were ever to find himself in their company. As a military man, Al could not exactly be described as being a pacifist by nature, but he believed passionately in the concept of a fair fight. Terrorist tactics were as abhorrent to him as to the next man.

"When did all this happen, Al?"

"Not long after you leapt in."

"Why didn't you tell me? Al, you **have** to go to her, be with her, talk to her." Sam was taking a long time to string his sentences together.

"How can I, Sam? I can't just up sticks and take off, I have - responsibilities." He gave Sam a telling look.

"And I appreciate how seriously you take them," replied Sam sincerely, "but she was your wife. You _must_ go. Think how you'll feel if she dies and you didn't go."

"Think how I'll feel if **you** die and I didn't stay!" retorted Al. "It's academic, Sam. I can't go and that's an end to it. You need me here – and don't tell me you don't. If it comes down to a choice as to which of you means more to me _right now_, no contest, buddy. You win hands down. It's all water under the bridge with Ruthie. I wouldn't even know what to say to her. What could I say? We haven't spoken for years. Besides, she's in a coma; she probably wouldn't even know I was there."

"She'll know, Al. Trust me, She'll hear you, she'll know. Book a flight. Go." Sam made a shooing gesture. "Be there for her, Al."

"Maybe when you lea…" Al started to compromise.

Suddenly, without any hint of warning, Sam broke away from the slumbering form of Becky-Lou, and rolled over with a groan, his face screwed up in obvious agony.

"Gnaaargh!" He writhed on the ground, clutching his mid-section with both arms.

"What is it, Sam?" Al bent over him, his face and voice reflecting his concern for his friend. "What's the matter, buddy?" Even the remotest thought of going to Ruthie was instantly banished.

Sam continued to contort, doubled over by pain, vainly seeking a position that would offer some relief. For a while, he was unable to speak, but merely grunted and cried out alternately as wave upon wave of pain washed over him.

"Own…gnh… stupid… fault." He finally managed through gritted teeth.

Al gave him a puzzled expression, and began poking the hand link, hoping it would provide a more coherent response as to what ailed his companion.

"Overdosed…on t-the ice w-water… Aaaargh!" more twisting and groaning, his knees almost under his chin one moment, legs in a sort of running pose the next.

"Chilled… m-my gut." He panted, "Stomach c-cramps. Ooufff." He had broken out in a cold sweat.

Ziggy squealed her diagnosis, in agreement with her father's. Dr Beckett had drunk too much cold water; overcooled his stomach, and was paying for it now in the crippling cramping of his stomach muscles.

"Aargh, Jeez, Al, help me!" Sam grimaced. He hugged himself still tighter, unable to find any respite from the sharp spasms of pain.

"What can I do, pal?" asked Al, feeling frustrated at his helplessness, hating to see his friend suffering such violent symptoms.

"D-don't s'pose you could…oooowww… rustle up another d-dog, could ya?" Sam asked, referring to the curious version of the cavalry Al had summoned to such good effect during his last Leap.

Al looked at Sam like he'd lost his mind.

"They'll probably be bringing dogs to help dig you out in the morning, buddy. I'll make sure they find you. You know that, Sam."

"N-no… N-now. I could u-use one…gnuh…now." Sam fleetingly fretted that his agonized cries would wake and worry Becky-Lou, but one glance told him she was still way out of it. He thought that that should trouble him, but somehow he hadn't the energy. He tried to explain himself to Al.

"Dogs are among the b-best animals at… aargh… cons-serving body heat." His breathing was really labored now. "N-next b-best… t-thing to a… h-hot w-water bottle. M-might… just… h-help… t-to ease the… uh p-pain too! Gnaaaargh! "

"Sorry, pal." Al responded with genuine regret, "No canines currently on the horizon. Best I can suggest is to think warm thoughts."

Sam glared at his friend, clearly less than impressed with Al's idea of help. Then he screwed up his eyes again as the pain gripped him in it's vice.


	13. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve**

Over an hour went by before the pains subsided completely. Sam was utterly done in, and feeling weak as a near drowned kitten.

"How… much… longer?" he wanted to know. The cold was creeping insidiously deeper and deeper, biting into the very marrow of his bones, turning his blood to ice in his veins.

Al consulted his hand-link, frowning and pelting it with the heel of his hand as if he could get the clock to count down faster.

"You just gotta wait a coupla hours more Sam." Al replied, keeping it vague. "Hang in there, buddy."

Al calculated that in his present condition it would take Sam a long time to retrace his way to the end of his tunnel to finish breaking through the barrier. He didn't want Sam exposed to the elements any longer than necessary, but neither did he want the team to miss him. Time to relocate, he decided.

"You better get in position, Sam."

Sam frowned, uncomprehending. Al explained slowly and patiently that he was suggesting Sam make his way back to the outer barrier, so that he would be ready to break through the last inch or so when the team approached.

Sam looked back at Becky-Lou.

"I don't… think… she'll… make it, Al." In truth, the distance wasn't that great, but it may as well have been a marathon.

Al nodded in confirmation. It would be tough enough for Sam to summon the energy. Becky-Lou's diabetes made her more susceptible to the negative effects of the cold. She was out for the count and liable to remain so until she received medical attention.

Sam reached over and tried to get a hold of the comatose teenager to drag her along with him. He was surprised at how slow his arms were to obey his brain's instructions. He fumbled, un-coordinated for a few moments, until he finally managed to grab the shoulder of her coat. Although he heaved and heaved with all his might, he failed to move her more than a few centimeters. Eventually, he gave up, fatigued, and looked plaintively at his friend. His hands no longer held Becky's coat, but his fingers were still curled.

"I'm… starting… to… get… stiff." Sam complained his voice hoarse and weak.

Al looked at Becky-Lou, and opened his mouth as if he was about to make a vulgar comment, but Sam forestalled him with a look that clearly said, "Don't even think it!" coupled with "I couldn't manage anything if I wanted to!"

"I'd lend you a hand if I could, pal." Al apologized, "You'll have to leave her here. It is more important that the team spots you, and then _they_ can drag her out. Get going buddy, you got some ground to cover."

Inch by inch, Sam gradually clawed and crawled his way back along the tunnel he had sensibly dug earlier, until after what felt like hours of exhaustive effort he arrived back at the remaining blockage. Most of the way, he was on autopilot, barely aware of what he was doing, much less how he was managing to achieve it. Every slight move took its toll on his waning energy reserves.

Sam was way beyond shivering now, Ziggy silently reported to Al through the hand-link that Sam's body temperature was currently at 31 degrees and dropping as hypothermia took a firm hold. A profound numbness crept throughout his body, slowing physical and mental reactions alike. The blood flow to his extremities slowed due to _vaso-constriction_, sacrificed by his body's natural defenses to allow the flow to remain stronger through his midsection, protecting his vital organs for as long as possible against the relentless assault of the cold. His heart rate and respiration were weakening and his blood pressure was plummeting.

Icy fingers gripped Sam's heart and tried to squeeze the life out of him.

Sam found himself wishing he were a Tower-trained Darkovan Matrix technician, or a Tibetan monk skilled in the art of tummo yoga - the yoga of "vital heat". Either person, fictional or real, had the mental discipline to will an increase in their body heat, enabling them to endure and survive unscathed the bleakest of deep freeze conditions. Though he had studied various meditative techniques and knew the power of a positive mental attitude, the precise skills of tummo were not a part of his repertoire, and so he felt himself slipping ever closer toward loss of consciousness and impending death. His eyes pleaded with Al – 'Get me out of this ice-box…'

"Keep talking to me buddy. You gotta keep that noggin in gear," urged Al. "I know, explain the string theory to me."

"Huh?" Sam's normally razor sharp brain was dulled to the point that it more resembled shaving foam. His thought processes were sluggish, as if his synapses were wearing thick rubber galoshes instead of their usual sprinting shoes, and wading through molasses to boot.

"Too tough, eh?" conceded Al. "Okay, let's start simple and work our way up. How about Pythagoras' theorem? Come on, Sam, what does Pythagoras say about triangles?"

Sam pondered for a moment, struggling to remember.

"The squ-hair on…on the… hi-hip-hop-pop-potamus is… equal… to the… sum of… the h-hairs… on… the other… two hides?" Sam frowned as he tried to work out what the heck he had just said. Al was trying to work it out too. Was Sam trying to be funny, or was he really that addled? Al very much hoped it was the former, but knew the latter was more likely.

Ziggy once more surreptitiously updated the observer on Dr Beckett's core temperature, displaying the fact that it was slipping beyond the 30 degree lower limit of moderate hypothermia, and into the far more dangerous severe hypothermic stage. 29.7 degrees flashed on the hand-link, and was almost immediately replaced –

29.6 degrees. Ziggy warned Al that a further drop of 2 degrees would result in coma and almost certain death. As it was, his recent exertions had drained far more body heat than they'd produced, exacerbating his condition.

Even now, it would take more than ten hours of gradual warming to safely restore Sam's core temperature to an acceptable level. Any faster, and the _vaso-constriction_ would be reversed. His extremities would warm at the expense of his core, and the blood would rush away from his vital organs, causing a further deep body temperature drop that would quickly prove fatal.

Al's face could not mask his horror at this prognosis, but thankfully Sam didn't notice. Not only did the darkness of the cavern make discerning such an expression difficult, even with the aid of the holographic glow, but also Sam was becoming increasingly lethargic, withdrawn and apathetic. It was getting harder and harder for Al to get any sort of a reaction from his friend. He was not about to give up though, not while there was breath left in Sam's body. Even if it was so shallow as to be almost down to ten breaths per minute. According to Ziggy, Sam's pulse rate was severely reduced and weak too.

Al checked his watch for the hundredth time. He could only hope that time would not run out for his friend before the rescue team arrived. The observer was tempted to pop outside and see for himself exactly where the search party was, but he was afraid that abandoning Sam for even a moment might allow the opportunity for him to slip too far into the grip of the hypothermia.

At last Ziggy was telling him that it was light outside, and the team was well on the move.

"C'mon buddy, hang in there," he encouraged, "Not much longer now, pal. Talk to me, Sam. How're you feeling?"

Al had learned that he had to keep it simple; Sam's genius mind was so much sushi at the moment. It was only his iron-willed determination to survive and even more, to keep his promise to get Becky-Lou out alive that was keeping the physicist conscious.

"My… body… feels… like… lead, yet… my…my head… seems… to… be… floating… weightless. Is… this… what… death… feels… like, Al?" Every hoarsely whispered word was hard won, and marked by a blink of concentration. The spaces between words were getting longer and longer.

"Hold on, buddy, don't give in to it," pleaded Al. "You gotta fight it, Sam. Stay with me, now." Al was gripping the hand link as if it were a rope he could throw to a drowning Sam. He willed the leaper to find the strength to survive...

"They're almost here, Sam, time to dig out." Al finally told his friend.

"C-a-n-'t… m-o-v-e." It was all Sam could do to remember how to form words.

"You have to, buddy." Al told him gently, but seeing that his friend was slipping into further unresponsiveness, he changed his manner. Putting on a stern expression, and pointing his finger for emphasis, he made his tone harsh and commanding, "Come on damn it, move yourself, soldier, that's an order."

How many times had Al needed to apply tough love to pull Sam through a crisis? Too many, and should Sam survive this current ordeal, Al had little doubt that this wouldn't be the last.

For a few moments more, Sam remained still, eyelids drooping, on the verge of giving in and passing out. If he was still breathing, his lungs were unaware of it. Then Al used his trump card, the one thing guaranteed to galvanize Sam into action.

"Sam, you get your butt back in gear and start digging right now, or Becky-Lou is gonna die in here with you." He chastised.

As predicted, that penetrated Sam's befuddled, benumbed brain, and caused his eyes to open wide.

"That's it, pal, c'mon. You can do it."

Sam tried to move, but his cryogenic carcass was totally unresponsive to his mind's incoherent commands.

"Can't!" he repeated; the word expelled on a strained breath.

"Sam, I don't wanna hear you can't.' admonished the Admiral, as if he were chewing out a raw recruit. "Now get to it. Becky-Lou's in big trouble, Sam. You gotta get help, and you gotta do it **now**." Al was beginning to worry that he had already left it too late.

Little by little, Sam woke his slumbering muscles. It was no easy task. Intense concentration brought barely a flicker of movement.

"Dammit Sam, try harder." Bullied Al, "Remember that film? _'Lorenzo's oil' - _That kid was paralyzed, but he didn't give in. Be like him, Sam, remember, huh? – Now tell your brain to tell your shoulder to tell your arm to tell your hand to tell your fingers to dig out. Do it!"

Sam forced his frozen fingers to flex. Somehow, he made contact with the snowy plug and pawed at it half-heartedly.

"You need to do better than that, Sam" Al chastised, though he knew he was asking a lot. Sam shot him a look that countered, "I'd like to see you do better!"

"Get angry, Sam, let rage give you the strength, get angry with that damned snow." Al suggested. Sam wasn't sure he remembered what anger was. He wasn't sure of anything except that he was desperate to sleep.

"How…where...?" Sam mumbled, forgetting what he was trying to do. Everything seemed remote and unreal.

"You gotta dig out, Sam. C'mon buddy, concentrate. Look, follow my moves."

Al got his hand into position, let it disappear into the bank, and mimed scooping out a handful of snow. He had to do it three times before Sam got the message, and attempted to ape the movement.

"That's it, pal, attaboy, you can do it," encouraged Al, continuing to demonstrate what Sam needed to do. Gradually, Sam got into a sort of rhythm, and Al could see the snow coming away piece by tiny piece.

Stiff, swollen, aching joints made digging with gnarled hands slow, painful strenuous work. Sam worked once more as an automaton, without thought or feeling beyond the repetitive movements being required of him. Al hassled and cajoled and praised every slight achievement, while at the same time checking his hand link compulsively every few moments, to be sure that the team had not passed them by.

Al could almost hear them outside, walking in a line, sinking poles gently into the snow to feel for any foreign objects, calling to each other when an area was clear and they should advance to the next stage.

"Hurry Sam, they're almost here!" Al spurred him to one last burst of effort.

Sam complied, clawed hands scrabbling at the last of the snow as one buried alive scrabbles at the lid of their coffin. Just in time, his twisted fingers grabbed at air, and his hand burst through to the surface, like the lady of the lake reaching up for Excalibur.

"Look! There!" the shout went up, and in moments hands were reaching out, carefully digging away enough snow to find the body that went with the protruding hand.

As they worked, Al promised Sam that everything should be okay now and that his pains would soon be over.

"Doesn't… hurt… any… more. Can't… feel… a thing. Funny, I… thought… rigor mortis… came… **after**… death."

With tremendous efficiency and practiced teamwork, an ashen-faced Sam was soon extracted from his temporary tomb. When they moved him, he felt he was so fragile - his bones as brittle as glass - that a wrong move would cause him to snap into a thousand pieces. Thankfully, they were gentle and sensitive in their handling of him. They had dealt with enough cases of hypothermia to know what needed doing. They could see how thoroughly the young man was in its grip by the waxy appearance of his skin, the cyanosis of his cracked lips and fingertips and the general rigidity of his limbs and they could feel how very cold he was to the touch. In fact they were amazed that not only did he still have a discernable pulse – just – but he was also still conscious, albeit barely.

"Becky" he whispered simply, his arm feebly pointing back inside to indicate that he was not alone. One of his rescuers dove into the tunnel to investigate.

The rest of the team eased him onto a litter, and covered him with several blankets, tucking them in tightly around his body to prevent further heat loss now that he was exposed to the elements. They discussed removing his damp clothing and replacing it with dry, but decided it was better to wait until he reached the ambulance that was waiting for them at the base of the mountain. The early morning air was decidedly chilly, and the dangers of effecting the change out in the open were liable to be more deleterious than the potential benefits of the result warranted.

Whilst some of the rescuers waited with a second litter for Becky-Lou to emerge, four began the decent with Sam carried between them, all the while speaking reassuringly to him to ease his mental anguish and reduce the effects of shock. Coach Hank Montgomery walked alongside; having insisted on going with the search party he'd alerted after Tammy had informed him of the couple's failure to return to their dorms. He too spoke encouraging words to his student.

Al, on the other hand, regretfully told Sam that Ziggy was predicting Becky-Lou was still in danger, and therefore he had to remain awake a little longer. Sam ploughed every molecule of waning energy remaining in him into keeping his eyelids from obeying gravity's insistent demands. He was teetering precariously on the precipice of that yawning chasm known as coma.

So all absorbing was this undertaking, that before he knew it, both he and Becky-Lou were lying in the ambulance, had been taken out of their wet clothes and were being rushed to the hospital in Salt Lake City.

What got his attention at this point, where Al's continued urgings to respond had thus far failed, was the conversation between the two paramedics riding with them.

"I don't think she's gonna make it," announced one, "I've lost her pulse again."

He began massaging Becky-Lou's chest.

The other one took a look at her, commenting on her extreme pallor.

"She sure looks like death." He confirmed, "mind you, so does the other one." He pointed at Sam. "I don't understand why he isn't comatose too." The words were coming to Sam through a fog, and his brain was having trouble processing their implications, but gradually he started to make some sort of sense of it all.

"Maybe we should just concentrate our efforts on him. She doesn't seem to be responding at all. She still feels like ice. At least _he_ stands a chance…" began the first.

"No!" breathed Sam, but he wasn't sure they'd heard. He wasn't even sure he'd spoken aloud.

They _had_ to keep trying; they couldn't give up on Becky-Lou. Sam was feeling like he'd never thaw out either, but he would take his chances. They mustn't let Becky-Lou die.

Sam found himself wishing "Space" blankets had been invented. They did the trick for marathon runners suffering from exposure…

'That's it!' he thought, his brain suddenly energized by the possibility of saving Becky-Lou.

He _had_ to make them understand.

Sam tried to reach up to grab the paramedic's arm, but his own stubbornly refused to move. How could he get their attention? He was so completely and utterly exhausted; he could barely summon the strength to breathe.

Okay then, that would have to do. It was a pity that this was not a decade or so later – he would have had respiratory monitors to alert them to his condition. Unfortunately, the mid-fifties had nothing so sophisticated. He would have to rely upon their vigilance. He drew in as deep a breath as he could manage, and deliberately held it. Just as he was about to pass out from lack of oxygen, the technician closest to him sensed a change in status. Looking round, he called to his partner.

"Ralph, this one's not breathing!"

They turned their efforts to him, instantly attentive, extremely relieved when he spontaneously gasped in a lungful of air.

"…Tinfoil" Sam suggested as he exhaled again, in a barely audible whisper.

The nearest paramedic leaned forward, thinking the boy was delirious "What's that, son?"

"…tin… foil" Sam repeated, no louder than before, straining to get the words through dry cracked still blue lips.

Leaning right down so that his ear was to Sam's lips, the attendant urged him to say it once more, thinking that the lad's judgment was skewed by exhaustion, but grateful for any sign that he was fighting the hypothermia.

"Wrap… her… in… tin… foil" Sam sighed with effort and exasperation.

"Tin foil?" repeated the man incredulously, "What the devil is he on about, Ralph?"

Ralph merely shrugged his shoulders, and then made a circular motion with his finger pointing at his temple. The kid's brain was a frozen Popsicle; he couldn't be expected to make sense.

"Think!" exhorted Sam, who was finding that particular activity exceedingly taxing, along with all the other strenuous pursuits he was being forced to engage in, such as breathing, and staying awake.

"Why… cook… food… tinfoil?"

He could almost see the wheels turning as the two processed this question. Then, as one, their expressions changed, and it was as if he could see the light-bulb switch on in their brains.

"To stop heat escaping!" provided Ralph. "Donny, this kid's a genius!"

"And then some!" Al put in.

Donny leaned forward and banged on the partition that separated the cab from the rear of the ambulance.

A few minutes and a quick stop at the local store later, and they were wrapping both patients in copious amounts of aluminum foil, like a pair of sparkling oven-ready mummies.

When this task had been accomplished, Ziggy squealed.

"That's it, buddy. Ziggy says the odds of Becky-Lou surviving have risen to 52 percent. You did it kiddo. You'll still have to get her skiing again, but the crisis is over for now."

Sam had a strong case of Rip Van Winkle envy.

"If… nobody… minds…" Sam replied by way of acknowledgement, "I think… I'd… like… a little… nap… now, just… for a… week… or so."

Without waiting for confirmation or permission, Sam lapsed into serene unconsciousness.

Only the scarcely discernable rise and fall of his chest at infrequent intervals marked the fact that he was merely sleeping and not dead.


	14. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen**

**Tuesday evening**

Gradually, the hypothermic coma gave way to a deep sleep, then to a lighter, more restless hovering on the edge of consciousness. Finally, a sensation penetrated Sam's awareness. It was not so much a pain as a deep discomfort, which perversely he found strangely comforting. It took a while for Sam to locate the source of the feeling, and when he did, he awoke with a start and tried to scuttle his torso upward in the bed, a look of alarm on his face.

"What the…?" he struggled to come to terms with what was being done to him.

A nurse was there at once, restraining him, her voice gentle and soothing.

"Hush now, lie still. It's all right. You're safe now."

'Safe' was a relative term, when you were in the process of being violated.

He found he was shaking, with cold and with fear, but as he looked at the nurse's sympathetic face, his rational mind suddenly calculated what was happening. The cold reminded him that not so long ago he had been far too cold even to shiver, and had needed some serious thawing out. That was what they were doing. In order to help raise his core temperature, they were giving him a warm water enema!

"Oohhhhhh, boy!" he breathed, still a little freaked by the intrusion upon his person, but appreciative now of the reasoning behind it.

He realized that his retreat had been hindered by tethers in the form of tubes protruding from both arms. These carried blood out of his body on the right, circulated it through a pump and a series of coils, which warmed the blood before returning it to the body by way of his left arm, bypassing the heart and so warming the body. It was an inspired reversal of a common technique developed in the 50's to cool the blood and thence the body during serious operations.

Another face floated into his field of vision, the friendly face of his Coach, Hank Montgomery, looking tired and drawn.

"How you doing, B-J? You look like Hell, son."

Sam felt every bit as bad as he evidently looked. Every single muscle in his entire body ached with an intensity beyond imagining. Every joint felt swollen and uncomfortable. His stomach felt tender and sore, a legacy of the savage spasms caused by the cramps, and he was fatigued beyond measure.

"I'd say… that's w-where… I've been" replied Sam, his voice rasping, "Only… it has a r-reputation… for being… just a t-tad warmer!"

Hank sniggered, and patted him on the arm, surprised at how cold the flesh still felt beneath his own warm hand.

"Try to get some sleep now. You need to rest." Ordered the nurse.

Feeling more relaxed by the acceptance of his treatment, which he was medic enough to recognize as both necessary and desirable to ensure his recovery; Dr Beckett drifted once again into the friendly arms of Morpheus, and slept the sleep of the just.

**Thursday lunchtime**

The tubes had finally been removed when Sam found himself abruptly returning to full consciousness once more. As his addled mind, which had fallen to dreaming, relived his ordeal, and his dreams reminded him sharply that he had not suffered alone, he sat bolt upright in the bed, staring straight ahead with unfocused eyes:

"Becky-Lou!"

Al could tell it wasn't exactly the smartest thing Sam had ever done as his friend's pale face blanched whiter still.

"Whoa, Sam, bad move buddy."

Sam had instantly reached this conclusion of his own accord, and collapsed back to the horizontal in pretty short order.

"You're telling me?" he sighed wearily, eyelids drooping again.

He'd intended to go and find her, to see for himself if she was all right, but the effort required to get him up and out of the bed would have taken way more energy than he currently had at his disposal.

Though his heart rate had returned to normal - and then some - and his blood pressure had risen to a more acceptable level, as had his temperature, he still felt incredibly weak.

"What's that, sonny?" Queried the Doctor, suspecting that his patient was still a trifle delirious.

Sam pulled himself together with the barely conscious effort of one long practiced in dealing with such abnormal circumstances.

"Please, tell me how Becky-Lou is. I need to know." Sam Beckett a.k.a Bobby-Joe Parnell was feeling guilty and vulnerable and scared. He'd tried to protect her, to save her. He was sure he remembered that he'd tried pretty darn hard. But had it been enough? He was at once both anxious and afraid to have his query answered.

"She's out of danger, hon. She hasn't woken up yet, but they say she's gonna be just fine."

His still befuddled brain fancied he heard his mother's voice, comforting, calming reassuring, **warm**. He felt enfolded by her protective love, safe and exonerated.

When he opened his eyes, however, it was not Thelma Beckett's face he saw, but it _was_ the next best thing. B-J's mother was sitting by the bed, holding his hand, crying softly, and Al stood behind her.

"What are you doing here?" he asked his friend, with an unusual lack of discretion; having belatedly remembered Al's other ailing partner, and his insistence that Al should go to her.

-"That's exactly what Ruthie asked me!" Al responded.

-"That's a charming welcome for your poor old Mom." Sam had the notion that if she hadn't been so worried about the state of him, he'd have received a swift clip round the ear for his insolence.

"I only meant," he hastened to assure her, looking at Al with a 'now look what trouble you've got me into' expression, "how did you get here so fast?"

Al promised his friend he would explain everything later, when they were alone.

"Fast? You've been asleep for more than _two days_, sweetie. I was fit to be tied when they told us what had happened. Then when I first got here and set eyes on you, I thought I was gonna lose you."

She sniffed and began crying anew.

"Don't cry, Mom. I'm okay, honest." As if to prove it, Sam tried to sit up again, but had to admit defeat before he'd gained much ground.

"Tell your Momma the truth now; how are you really?"

"Fine, honestly, except…."

"I knew it, what's wrong, honey?"

"Only that" his voice was husky, "I sure could use a hug." He guessed she could too.

She enveloped him in the warmth of her motherly love and for a while he forgot he was Sam Beckett and she Lillian Parnell. It was as if she really was **his **mother, or he really was her son. It didn't matter which. He felt safe in her arms, and comforted, and freed for a while from the responsibilities of adulthood.

"Thanks, Mom. I needed that." He whispered, as they finally broke apart. She smiled indulgently at him.

It was true what his own mother had often told him, "Mother-Love is the most powerful force on Earth. It protects and nurtures and heals." There was no pain, or bad feeling or Boogie Man it could not either drive away or at least diminish.

"Anything else you need, son?" Lillian fussed over him, plumping his pillow.

Sam could think of quite a few things, most of them fairly basic requirements, like more sleep, but the one that came strongest to mind at that precise moment was food, his recent experience having left him feeling drained in more than one sense. The thought of a warm meal was too tempting to resist.

"Uh, I am kinda ravenous," he declared, "I could use something to eat."

"Of course, honey." She was already on her feet, and making for the door. "What would you like? Anything you want, anything at all, whatever your little heart desires, you just name it and I'll get it for you."

Sam had no doubt that she would make good on that promise, if she had to commandeer the hospital kitchen and spend the next couple of hours creating some intricate culinary masterpiece, to satisfy his most outrageous whim.

"I'm so hungry I could eat **anything**," he replied earnestly, "I really don't mind what." He paused, considering his statement and deciding it needed one slight qualification, "anything **except**..." he sighed deeply, so that it was almost a shudder, "**not** ice cream, _please_."

Everyone in the room, including the invisible Al, burst into spontaneous laughter at that, even Sam himself managed to smile, though in truth his plea had been a serious one.

"Well," declared the doctor, "at least his sense of humor is still intact. And a healthy appetite is a good sign. I think we can safely say the prognosis is quite good in this case."

Mrs Parnell's step was noticeably lighter as she bustled out to find him some sustenance.

Sam remembered suddenly and very clearly his own mother sitting by his bedside.

It had been the spring of his eleventh year, when he was helping on his parents' farm and had been savagely kicked in the groin by a cow that was having trouble calving. He'd been laid up for nigh on a week, and he had limped for a good deal longer than that, and the pain had been indescribable. The shock of the incident had caused a lock of hair on his forehead to turn snow white overnight, and so it had remained throughout his life.

_When it happened, he'd pressed his lips tightly together to keep himself from crying out. It hadn't been all **that** bad, in fact more numb than painful at first and he'd wanted to carry on helping his Dad, but his leg burgeoned from a shoot to a sapling in moments and then gave way under him. He'd fallen to the ground at his father's feet, yet for a moment John Beckett, engrossed in comforting Esme, the distressed cow, failed to notice. It was only when the numbness wore off, and the pain hit Sam abruptly with all the force of an atomic detonation at ground zero, that he could stay silent no longer and the scream that escaped his lips was as Joshua at the walls of Jericho. A loud and mournful ululation emanated from him, strident, unending, and as the pain and the cry built to a simultaneous crescendo the walls of the red barn shook, reverberating with the dreadful sound. Esme was temporarily forgotten as his father turned to see what had provoked such a din from his normally placid son. Then his father saw what must have happened and whisked his son up in his arms, carrying him into the house whilst at the same time his mother and brother came flying out to see what was amiss._

What had happened in the next few minutes, or maybe hours, were a blur to Sam, and not because of his Swiss-Cheese memory.

_When he'd come to, it was with a rush of awareness, which arched his back and caused the scream to take up precisely where it had left off, continuing till he had no breath left to scream. _

_They had divested him of all his clothes in an attempt to assess the extent of the damage that had caused such a severe reaction. He was lying on his bed; stark, buck-naked as the day he was born, in the altogether, and altogether too hazed by pain to care. His leg was swollen up thick as a tree trunk and almost twice the girth of its counterpart. The whole area of his upper thigh and groin was a single massive purple bruise, which burned with the heat of a hundred suns. _

_As his Mom applied a cold compress to reduce the swelling, eliciting a hoarse throated squeal, his dad shook his head and said that he had been lucky. (Sam decided his definition of lucky must differ significantly from that of his father.) "If that blow had been an inch or two further over he'd have been gelded for sure." This curious proclamation gave Sam no comfort whatsoever, as the agony welled up to ever-greater degrees within him, so that he howled mournfully as a wolf baying at the full moon, till finally it hurt too much even to moan, and he was reduced to heavy rasping breaths. _

_His Mom mopped his fevered brow with a tepid cloth, and held his hand, though he dug his nails into her palm with each spasm that gripped his vitals._

"_Gee, Mom, it hurts. It **really** HURTS!" Sam complained between sobs, "Make it stop, Mom, PLEASE make it stop." _

_He was driven half mad by the pain, his dull, lack-luster eyes staring unfocused at the ceiling of his room, his hands clawing for the soothing touch of his mother's arms. His bruised and swollen pudenda throbbed interminably, like the base beat of a pop song, with an intensity that was beyond endurance. There were moments when he sincerely felt he would have preferred it if he had been Bobbitized instead._

_Tom had laughed nervously at first in embarrassed sympathy. But when he saw the terrible strain etched on his baby brother's face, he'd fussed round like a mother hen, running to fetch fresh cold cloths as each one warmed on the radiator which was his sibling's leg. He couldn't look Sam in the eye; he didn't want Sam to see that the big brother he thought so strong and tough was fighting back tears of his own._

_John Beckett phoned for the doctor, only to be told he had gone to deliver twins to a couple who ran a farm on the other side of town and was likely to be gone for some considerable time. John had tried to help, but found himself feeling superfluous in the sick room, and soon returned to tend to Esme. _

_Thelma had given her son some junior aspirin, but far from killing the pain as the packet promised, they barely managed to stun it. The pains in his crotch made him want to double up, curl up protectively into a hedgehog ball, but the swelling of his leg would brook no such maneuver and kept him stretched out flat, the slightest movement sending him whiter than the immaculately laundered sheets he lay on._

_Thelma stroked his hair, his arm, his cheek, and spoke reassuringly to her son, but she felt helpless in the face of his torment. It cut her to the quick when he pleaded, eyes like saucers, voice cracked:_

"_The pain's **so **bad, Mom. Make it go away. **Please**, you gotta make it go away, I can't bear it."_

_He looked gaunt, haggard, far older and more care-worn than his tender years had any right to look._

_Then, to his eternal chagrin, dazed and confused as he was, he had reflexively answered Nature's sudden insistent call. His water hissed and steamed as it ran down his leg, burning like acid as he passed it, making him whimper pitifully. As ill luck would have it, Katie had chosen that precise moment to seek everyone out, feeling ignored. With the innocent glee of a six year old, she chanted in singsong fashion: _

"_Sammy's wet the be-ed, Sammy's wet the be-ed. Who's the baby now, brother?" she mocked, trying to sound superior, "**I** stopped doing that _ages_ ago."_

_When Mom tried to pull a sheet over him to restore his dignity, he'd had to push it away with frantically flailing arms, as even that slight weight was unbearably oppressive to him._

_Tom glared daggers at Katie and pulled her out of the room, telling her sternly:_

"_Shut up, Katie, leave him alone. He couldn't help it. Sam's been hurt and he couldn't help it." _

_Katie rushed to her room in a flood of tears, both from the unaccustomed telling off, and because she was frightened by her brother's pain._

_Thelma knew she needed a loving hug and a motherly pep talk, but Sam's need was the greater._

"_I'll go." Offered Tom, feeling guilty for snapping at her._

_Thelma drew Sam into her arms and told him not to worry; she wasn't cross; it would be okay. Sam shook with paroxysms of sobbing._

"_I'm sorry, Mom, I love you. I'm so sorry. It's just that it hurts real bad."_

"_I know," she crooned, "I love you too, honey. It'll be all right. It'll pass, I promise. Its okay, Mommy's here." She mopped his brow again and stroked his cheek, drawing his head into the shelter of her bosom, and for a moment the pain subsided. _

_When she'd got him into a dry bed, Thelma sat with her son, tending his wound as best she could; making him as comfortable as possible, which heaven knew was so far from comfortable as to make a mockery of the word. She felt every tremulous shudder he gave like a knife twisting in her heart as she lulled him to sleep, exhausted by the pain and the shock and the fear and the shame. _

_For a timeless time, Sam had dozed fitfully, drifting in and out of consciousness, floating on a sea of confusion, awash with pain. The terrible pulsing agony burrowed deep down to reach the very depths of his subconscious, drawing him back up to sweating bouts of troubled, twitching, jerking movements as his mind tried to escape the prison of his tortured body. Whenever he writhed thus, his mother was there to restrain him, to soothe and calm him, to hug him and assuage his fears_

_After his acutely embarrassing 'accident', Thelma had fetched a vase for his convenience. At first, he refused to use it, holding everything in – for the prospect of a repeat of that awful burning sensation; the agony he'd experienced, the feeling that he'd be split asunder by the stringent acid flow, left him quaking in abject terror. He wouldn't drink when his Mom tenderly offered him water to replace the body fluids he was so profusely sweating off. He didn't want to need to pass urine, and with the confused logic of childhood, and a mind dulled by pain and fever, he figured that if he didn't take it in, he wouldn't need to let it out again. Thelma had patiently convinced him that the more he drank the weaker the solution passing through and therefore the less painful it would be. Finally, the natural born scientist in him recognized the wisdom of her counsel. _

_Nevertheless, the next few times he availed himself of the wide necked vase, he had needed to grit his teeth and screw up his eyes to keep from blubbing at the torturous activity, making him curse his gender and the design of his anatomy._

Though the recollection of that long ago injury was vivid enough to make the adult Sam wince, still his abiding memory was of his mother's embrace, her untiring presence, her unfailing love.

_No matter how often he surfaced - from sleeping nightmares of being trampled to death by herds of stampeding cattle, to waking ones of excruciating pain – over the next couple of fever-ridden days, he had never once found himself alone. Mom had always been there, napping in a chair by his bed, instantly attentive as soon as he so much as stirred. When she had found time to grab herself a meal, much less cook for the rest of the family, was beyond the scope of his imagination. He only knew that she was constantly there for him, and it was her love, and her love alone that had brought him back from his personal Gehenna with his sanity intact. _

With the unique perspective that Leaping afforded him, he could well imagine what that diligence had cost her. He understood now that in some ways her suffering had probably outweighed his own. He wished he could tell her somehow how grateful he was. He felt sure that he had taken it all pretty much for granted at the time, and the thought grieved him. (In fact, as ever, Sam Beckett didn't give himself enough credit – he had shown a degree of appreciation uncommon in one so young.)

_When the fever had finally broken, he had slept heavily for a while, a deep and dreamless sleep. He awoke to find that the dreadful throbbing had at last abated, to be replaced by a dull nagging ache and a deep-rooted tingling, stinging itch he couldn't scratch. It couldn't quite be called a pain, but it was almost as unbearable. He sucked air in sharply and noisily through his teeth, startling his Mom from the nap she'd snatched while he was peaceful._

_He fidgeted, not knowing what to do with his hands. The instinctive part of him wanted to scratch and scratch furiously for all he was worth at the offending area like a dog with a fresh case of rampant fleas. The other, rational part of him knew he was still not ready to endure tactile contact in that region._

_As ever, his mother was there, gently holding him still, her voice soft, yet full of tight-reined emotion._

"_It's all right, Sam, Mommy's here. Is it still hurting bad, honey?"_

"_Not exactly, Mom, it sort of itches and stings. I can't describe it, but it's driving me crazy. Will I ever feel normal again?" _

_He was more lucid now than he'd been for Heaven knew how long, and his eyes were brighter, but Thelma could still sense his extreme distress, and knew he was suffering more than he wanted to acknowledge. She drew him to her in a tight embrace, her heart bursting with love and compassion _

_She'd have given anything and everything if she could have waved a magic wand to make her son better. She'd prayed and prayed, made promise after promise to God if he'd only see her youngest son whole again. She'd eulogized about what an exemplary life he led, how he was a dutiful son, full of filial affection. She'd begged that if such punishment were somehow unwittingly deserved, that retribution should rather be heaped upon her own head, that Sam might be spared._

_Now that the worst of the crisis was over, Thelma gave heartfelt thanks to God for returning her son to her. She determined that she would do all in her power both to minimize his trauma during his recovery and ensure that the whole family showed a proper gratitude to the Lord in their prayers and in their lives. _

_She distracted him now from his discomfort – which she assured him was a positive sign of healing – by playing word games with him, and reading with him, and quizzing him on any topic under the sun (she never once caught him out)._

_And when his fever starved body finally demanded sustenance, his Mom had brought him…._

…_Chicken soup. _

Mmmm, so good he could almost smell it now.

And so it came full circle - as Lillian Parnell returned to his hospital room bearing a huge bowl brim-full of steaming hot chicken soup.

"Get this down you, son." She instructed, with a look that left him in no doubt he was expected to drink every last drop.

'Is that _every_ mother's cure-all?' Sam mused, 'chicken soup and cuddles'. He sipped the warm broth gratefully as she spoon-fed him, a lopsided smile on his cracked lips.

Perhaps it wasn't such a bad prescription after all. It was certainly putting color back into his cheeks.


	15. Chapter 14

**Chapter Fourteen**

By the time he'd eaten his fill, which surprisingly was not the entire contents of the bowl, Sam was feeling much improved.

Lillian conceded to the nurse's attestation that his ordeal would have caused his stomach to shrink somewhat, so that his appetite exceeded his capacity to eat at this stage. The nurse also insisted that despite his long sleep, he still needed lots of rest to regain his strength.

Sam confirmed this opinion by using a line he'd read in an interview with Stephen King, though he didn't reveal its source:

"Yeah, I have all the energy of a boa-constrictor that's just swallowed a goat."

Lillian Parnell agreed to leave him to sleep, and also promised to look in on Becky-Lou, whose father was keeping vigil at her bedside. Before she left, she fussed at his pillows and sheets and asked him a dozen times if he was comfortable and if there was anything else he needed. He reassured her that he was fine, only tired, and returned her enthusiastic 'nap-time' hug with all the strength he could muster, which was admittedly very little. He did manage a wide smile, and this finally sufficed in heartening her enough to allow her departure.

"Sleep well, honey." She ordered in parting, giving Sam a kiss on the forehead. "I love you."

"Love you, Mom." Sam reciprocated sincerely, still feeling the filial bond.

Lillian let herself be ushered out by the nurse, who ordered Sam to get some sleep as she closed the door to his room, leaving him alone with his invisible friend.

Sam sighed wearily.

"You okay pal?" Al was aware he was sounding like B-J's mother, but his concern was as genuine.

"How can I have slept for _two **days**_ and still be so tired, Al?" Sam asked with a yawn.

"Well, I dunno, how 'bout _you_ tell _me_ **Doctor** Beckett? Let's see – maybe because you **very nearly _died_** out there!" Al scolded.

"I would have if not for you, Al…" Sam told him gratefully.

Al made a dismissive gesture, forestalling Sam's thanks. "I'd better go too, they're right, you need to rest and get your strength back." He reached for his hand-link to summon the door that would take him back to the future.

Sam raised a leaden arm to bid him stay.

"Don't go yet, Al," he wasn't pleading, yet his tone still conveyed a real desire not to be entirely alone.

Al aligned himself with a holographic chair in Sam's hospital room and simultaneously with a solid one in the Imaging Chamber and took a seat beside his friend.

"I'm here as long as you need me, buddy. You know that. Shall I stay 'til you fall asleep? You want me to tell you a bedtime story?" Al's teasing was gentle and as much as anything was an expression of the relief he was feeling that Sam had clawed his way back from the very brink of death. It earned him an exasperated raising of eyebrows, followed by a huge grin.

"Matter of fact, I do." Sam replied unexpectedly. "I want to hear all about your visit with Ruthie. How is she?"

As he spoke, he shifted position in the bed, trying to get more comfortable. A frown crossed his features.

Al looked at him questioningly, not needing to voice his renewed concern.

"I'm okay, Al. I'm just stiffer than an Englishman's upper lip!" Sam joked to set his friend's mind at rest.

Al spluttered with laughter. "Good one!" he conceded, glad of the change of subject.

Sam rubbed and squeezed at his left shoulder, collarbone and neck with his right hand, then mirrored the process on the other side. He rotated his shoulders and winced.

"Take it easy, Sam. You're bound to have some soreness."

"My muscles have got more kinks than your sexual practices." Sam complained as he continued to massage his aching shoulders, a pained expression accompanying his actions.

Al pretended to look shocked and hurt for a second.

"I **should** take umbrage at that, pal." He rejoined. Then he waggled his eyebrows up and down suggestively. "But you know what they say 'Practice makes perfect!' Besides, it sure is fun!" He chortled; his eyes alight with wicked merriment.

Sam smiled indulgently. His friend may be incorrigible, but he was still the best friend a man could ask for. "You're such a ham, Al!" he teased.

"Maybe that's why Ruthie couldn't stomach me!" Al muttered, "I wasn't kosher enough for her."

"Ahem," Sam cleared his throat pointedly, "Talking of Ruthie, Al. You were going to tell me what happened with Ruthie?"

Al looked away, and for a moment Sam thought he was going to clam up again and put on his 'don't intrude into my private life' façade.

"You _did_ go to see her?" Sam pressed.

Al had indeed been hoping that Sam would have forgotten all about him unburdening himself back in the snow cave. It was annoying that the Swiss cheesing of his brain made Sam blank out completely on the important stuff, yet retain with clarity the things Al would rather he forgot. Things like Al's uncharacteristic opening up on a deeply personal matter. He could see that the self-appointed social worker he had taken as his best friend would not be fobbed off, though, so he capitulated.

"Yeah, I went to see her." He stated flatly.

"And…?" Sam felt this was harder than pulling teeth from a cantankerous crocodile with a pair of tweezers, and he was pretty sure it wasn't just because he still felt so exhausted. He gave Al a withering stare that ordered him to stop prevaricating.

"Okay, okay." Al sighed. "At first it was like I predicted, she was comatose, and it felt like a waste of time being there. But I talked to her like you told me to. It wasn't easy. We've been divorced a whole lot longer than we were married, y'know?"

"I understand Al. But you did the right thing in going."

"I guess so. At least her being out of it gave me time to think about what I wanted to say, without her interrupting me. I don't think I got to finish so many sentences in all the time we were married! When she finally woke up, she was distant at first, almost hostile, but she seemed to appreciate the fact I'd been there." Al allowed himself a little smile, which wasn't lost on Sam.

"We got under each other's skin quite a bit, just like we always used to. By the time I left though, I suppose you could say we were on the way to being friends again."

"I don't like to say 'I told you so'…" Sam began, pleased for his friend.

"Then don't!" Al tried hard to sound cross, but the sparkle in his eyes betrayed him. Boy Scout Beckett had struck again, and Al felt better for it.

"Is she gonna be okay, Al?" Sam needed to know. He didn't want the man who was like a second father to him to have found a new understanding with an old flame, only to lose her again before he'd had a chance to savor it.

"The Doc says she's off the critical list, but it's too early to say about her long term prognosis. She sustained spinal damage at – what was it the Doc said? - at level T10? Does that mean anything to you?"

"Uh huh." Sam's medical knowledge did not fail him. He was well aware how serious an injury this was. Less so than a C5 like Jill Kinmont had sustained, but potentially seriously incapacitating nonetheless.

"What else did the doctor tell you?" Sam didn't want to paint the picture himself, especially as he wasn't in possession of the full facts.

"You know me, Sam. I can't be doing with all that medical mumbo jumbo. No offense."

"None taken." Sam smiled. Al understood a lot more technical stuff than he usually admitted to, but he believed in 'plain speaking'.

"Her legs were pretty bashed up, Sam." Al looked pale and sorrowful as he said this; his feelings toward Ruthie ran deeper than he would ever confess, probably far deeper than he even realized. "Her face was all bruised and swollen. She was a mess."

"Internal injuries?" Dr Beckett enquired.

"Not as bad as they expected apparently." Al said positively.

Sam nodded thoughtfully.

"They promised to keep me updated with her progress." Al told his friend, with an air of finality.

Sam shot him a disapproving glare.

"You _are_ going back to see her again." Sam stated rather than asked.

"Oh, I dunno, Sam. What would be the point? It's not like either of us is looking to get back together or anything."

"I never suggested you should, Al." Sam hastily reassured him.

"Well then…" Al gave him a 'what do you want from me' look, complete with a shrug. He considered the matter closed.

"Just cos you don't plan to remarry her, doesn't mean you're not allowed to care about her, Al. Even as a friend. She needs a friend right now."

"But…"

"Al," Sam persisted, "You're still listed as her next of kin. Why do you think that is?"

"Cos her parents are dead and she never re-married." Al shot back, a little too glibly.

Sam tilted his head and gave his friend a knowing look.

"What d'ya want me to say, Sam?"

"Bottom line," Sam was too tired to drag this out, "I want you to promise that while I'm between leaps, you'll go back and see Ruthie. Spend some time with her, talk with her, take her a present – and not just flowers and grapes. Something to tell her that you're rooting for her, that you genuinely care about her recovery. Something meaningful that she can hang onto during her long convalescence when you aren't there anymore and she's alone and despondent. It's gonna be tough on her, Al. Chances are it's gonna be an uphill struggle, and she's gonna have to come to terms with whatever limitations her condition imposes. She needs something to give her strength and hope and courage."  
"Wow, that's quite a speech Sam, **and **quite a tall order. Any idea what this miracle gift should be?"

Sam considered for a few moments.  
"I think maybe I _can_ help you there, Al." Sam shifted position in the bed again, and once more showed discomfort on his face, but he dismissed it.

"I met a fascinating neurologist at a symposium once."

Al looked at his friend askance. He was used to Sam's genius brain leaping off at a tangent, but this seemed so unrelated to anything that had preceded it, Al wondered if the intense cold had damaged Sam's grey cells permanently.

"Bear with me Al. This guy – Clements - no Klawans that was it, he wrote lots of books about the workings of the brain and various neurological conditions, based largely on case histories in his files. Inspirational. Anyway, one story he told me was about a student of his. She had MS, but remarkably spent years in remission and had no really serious disability from it. He debated whether it could be put down at least in part to a gift a classmate took to her in the hospital after her first major attack."

Al's curiosity was piqued in spite himself.

"Okay, I'll take the bait. What was it?"

"Have you heard the Jewish folklore surrounding Rachel's tomb just outside Jerusalem?"

"No, but I'll bet Ruthie has."

"Exactly." Pronounced Sam. "Tradition has it that if a blue ribbon is wrapped around Rachel's tomb and a certain prayer is said, pieces of that ribbon will preserve the health of the owner."

"You don't believe in that, do ya Sam?" Al was usually the superstitious one; Sam the Scientist was more skeptical as a rule.

"Doesn't matter what I think, Al. Ruthie might just believe it. That's what's important. Besides, as Harold countered when confronted with the same negativity – The atomic physicist Bohr was said to hang a horseshoe over his door, which earned him ridicule from his peers for his acceptance of superstition. Bohr replied that he'd been told they worked whether you believed in them or not!"

"I dunno, Sam, it's a bit uh hokey don't you think?"

"Well, put it this way," Sam persisted, "What harm could it do? And if it's a comfort to Ruthie, then it'll have done some good, won't it?"

"I suppose so." Al conceded. "But now you're not only proposing that I take more time out to go back to Texas, you're suggesting I detour via _Israel_!"

"If that's what it takes, Al."

"What if you leap quickly? You don't _always_ spend days in limbo y'know."

"Stop making excuses, Al. You'll be back when I really need you, you always are. Just promise me you'll go back and see her again." Sam yawned again, though he tried to stifle it.

"If I agree, will _you_ do like you're supposed to and get some sleep?"

"Yes, Poppa-bear. I'll be good." Sam gave him an endearing little boy look, "I promise, now how bout you?"

Al put his hands up in surrender. "You win, Sam. I promise. Now go to sleep, y'hear? Don't make me get Momma Parnell back in here, cos she'll like as not tan your hide for ya!"

Sam sniggered, and pretended to look scared, though he knew it was an idle threat. "No doubt!"

Then he hunkered down under the covers, and let out a few fake snores.

"I'm asleep, see?" he muttered. "Fast yawn asleep."

Before Al could contradict the statement, Sam had indeed begun to drift into that desirable state.


	16. Chapter 15

**Chapter Fifteen**

**Thursday afternoon**

Sam had not been asleep more than a couple of hours this time, when a commotion outside his room roused him to full alertness. Even so, it had been a relaxing slumber and though he couldn't yet claim to be back to 100 percent health, he felt quite refreshed, and considerably less achy.

Having soon realized that further napping would be impossible with the noise from the corridor; he decided to investigate – his leaper's instincts telling him that if something was going on in his immediate vicinity, then he should be in the thick of it rather than snoozing on the sidelines.

He sat up without much difficulty, but standing proved a bit more of a challenge. When he swung his legs out toward the floor the sight of his tightly bandaged left foot, and the increased circulation making it throb, reminded Sam somewhat rudely that he had sprained his ankle quite badly out on the mountain. Two days of rest, compression and elevation had reduced the swelling, but it was decidedly tender nonetheless.

The noise was still evident outside, though it seemed to be moving further away from his door. So Sam took a breath and cautiously rose, keeping his weight as much on his 'good' foot as possible. Using the bed, the walls, anything he could reach to steady himself, he made his way to the wardrobe and hastily dressed in the clothes B-J's mother had thoughtfully put there. He didn't bother with the socks and shoes, since his foot would not have taken kindly to the restriction.

Even after this delay, the sounds of excited or agitated voices still reached his ears, so Sam hobbled out of his room to track down the source of the din.

He saw a large group of what had to be reporters, accompanied by their photographers, milling around the corridor as if waiting for something or somebody. They seemed to know where they wanted to be, but were being prevented from attaining their target by hospital staff. One or two were trying the doors to other rooms nearby, as if they could sneak round a back way to their desired location. Many were arguing, pleading, cajoling, or trying to bribe their way into the room they were being denied access to. Some were trying to force their way in by sheer weight of numbers. Yet still they were held at bay.

Sam deduced from what he could overhear that the occupant of the room in question must be none other than Jill Kinmont.

Why couldn't they leave her alone? This soon after the accident she was probably still fighting for her life in there. The last thing she needed was this media circus.

Sam was about to wade in and have a go at their insensitivity, when he passed a door they had left open in passing. One of the occupants happened to look up, and sharply reprimanded him for being out of bed.

"Momma!" he responded instinctively, changing direction and limping into Becky-Lou's room to face the inevitable parental lecture.

Lillian Parnell rose to her feet, both angry with her son for not following doctor's orders, and worried about his welfare. B-J still looked exceptionally pale, even a little grey and she could see in his face that his ankle was paining him more than he'd ever own up to.

"Sit!" she ordered sternly, as if training a disobedient dog. After the first faltering step, she scuttled over and proffered her own feeble frame as support.

"Easy now, Momma's here. Lean on me." Knowing it would be unwise to insult her by insisting he could manage alone, Sam merely smiled his thanks and dipped his head respectfully. With her 'assistance' Sam dutifully made his way over to the bed, and as he reached it and took the proffered seat, Becky-Lou stirred.

Lillian Parnell was mercifully distracted from her intended tirade and began speaking to the girl, though she was not yet awake enough to fully register what was being said to her.

"Don't you fret none, Becky-Lou, your Papa's here, he just stepped out to use the bathroom, he'll be back before you know it." She took hold of the girl's hand and stroked the back of it with her thumb.

For a second, the matriarch looked across at Sam and opened her mouth as if she were about to send him to fetch Mr. Carter back post haste. Then she remembered his injured foot, and her command that he should not be walking on it, and she shook her head 'never mind'.

"Bobby-Joe's here, my boy came to see you." Lillian was smiling as she patted the pale cold hand, but there was still criticism in her eyes as she glanced over at him again.

Sam half rose, though he was careful to rest his weight on his right foot. He leaned over and kissed Becky-Lou on the cheek, as he was sure B-J would have done.

Despite her waif-like appearance, she was still attractive.

Like Sleeping Beauty at her Prince's kiss, Becky-Lou opened her eyes and awoke with a loud sigh, bestowing a smile upon her handsome suitor.

"There she is!" exclaimed Mrs. Parnell, who was very fond of her son's intended.

Becky-Lou blinked a few times, and took in her surroundings.

"Take your time, honey." Sam recommended, remembering how weak and frail he'd felt when he first came-to. "Just lie still and take it easy."

"Good advice," Lillian concurred, "Shame _you_ didn't take it, Robert Joseph Parnell." She gave him a nudge in the ribs, and he bowed his head contritely.

"I'm going to find William and let him know his daughter is back with us." Lillian declared, heading for the door. "You two just sit tight."

"Yes Momma." Replied Sam meekly.

For a minute or two, he merely sat by the bed, holding Becky-Lou's hand gently as Lillian had done, and allowing her to regain her faculties gradually.

Then:

"Thank you, B-J." she whispered, so softly he barely heard her.

"Huh?"

"You saved my life – again." She went on, her voice husky and rasping, as his had been.

"My pleasure." Sam grinned at her, and kissed the back of her hand gallantly. "I'm not going to have to make a habit of it though, am I?" he scolded gently.

"Not planning on it." Becky-Lou promised. "I think I've had enough brushes with death to last me quite a while!"

"Amen to that!" Sam smiled.

Leaning forward to kiss her forehead, Sam told her much as he'd been told, "You should sleep some more, get your strength back. I'll come see you in the morning."

"Do you _have_ to go?" Becky-Lou asked, not wanting her 'dreamboat' to desert her.

"Put it this way," Sam responded, "Your father will be here any minute. He's probably gonna bust my chops for keeping you out all night!"

Becky-Lou laughed, and then coughed a little. "I can handle Papa." She attested.

'I bet you can,' thought Sam.

"Besides," Becky-Lou looked him in the eye, "nothing happened. Not in _that _way. Even though I **really** thought I wanted it to at the time." She blushed. "Didn't you want to, B-J?" she queried, her eyes boring into him. It was one of those questions that it was virtually impossible to answer without risk of offending, especially with someone of Becky-Lou's sensitivities.

"What **I** wanted, and what was sensible in the circumstances were two very different things, honey." Sam settled for what was, in reality, more or less the truth.

"I'm glad now we didn't." she conceded. "You were right, there'll be a more special time and place." Sam sighed with relief.

"Only if you get some proper rest and get yourself better," Sam chided tenderly, bringing her back to the present.

She _had_ been willing to acquiesce, for she did indeed still feel tired and weak, but at that moment she became focused on the ruckus outside.

"What's all that about?" she asked, intrigued and a little alarmed.

"Nothing to worry about," Sam hastily reassured her, "Just a load of reporters trying to get the scoop on Jill." The words were out before he thought of the impact they would have on this intense young lady who took things so much to heart. Sam immediately wished he'd engaged his brain before putting his mouth into gear. A careless word to Becky-Lou tended to have dire consequences, as he'd learned to his cost.

"Jill? Jill's _here_?" Becky-Lou was sitting up before Sam could stop her, though her hand went to her head as a wave of dizziness washed over her.

"B-J, why didn't you _tell_ me?" she practically shrieked, leaning out of the bed to swipe him round the arm. "You have to take me to see her. You just **have** to!" By this time, she was almost out of the bed, but Sam reached over and held her back.

"For a start, honey," he reasoned, "You are in no fit state to go running round the hospital."

"But…" she started to protest. Sam put a finger to her lips to prevent the interruption.

"For another thing, Jill's in no fit state to receive visitors. Why do you think the reporters are so riled up?"

'I guess you're right," Becky-Lou conceded with a pout, "Maybe tomorrow?" she batted her eyelids at him, and twisted her hair in her fingers.

"We'll see." Sam was surprised but pleased that she had yielded so easily. "If you _promise_ to rest up now."

"You too." She countered, thus avoiding actually giving any promise herself.

"Yes, ma'am." Sam smiled at her, settling her back into the bed and kissing her tenderly on the forehead. "Sleep well, sweetie."

Then he rose to his feet and hobbled out, to return to his room.

He really should have known better. When something appears to be too good to be true, it invariably is.

He was barely out the door when he heard a thud from inside the room. Turning on his heel – not an easy maneuver when you only have one sound heel to turn on – he shuffled back in as fast as his ragged gait would allow. Not surprisingly, he found Becky-Lou on the floor, sobbing softly to herself and trying to drag her unresponsive body toward the door.

"What on earth do you think you're doing?" Sam asked incredulously, though in truth he had a pretty good idea.

"If you won't" _sniff_ "help me," she looked up defiantly, "I'll get to Jill by myself." She struck out with determination and dragged herself a little bit nearer.

Sam sighed and rolled his eyes heavenward. The girl was impossible.

As luck would have it, there was a wheelchair just behind the door - a big old-fashioned wheelchair with huge heavy wheels. Sam grabbed it, and leaning on it as much to support his own still weakened legs as anything else, he pushed it over to where she lay, which was fortunately not too far. It was as squeaky as it was cumbersome.

"Keep still, you silly goose." Sam told her as he approached, feeling that the affectionate insult was somehow prompted by B-J.

"I'm **not** getting back in that bed until I see Jill for myself." Becky-Lou hit the floor with her fist for emphasis. She did as she was bid though, and ceased her struggle to crawl to the door. She hadn't really the energy to continue it, but there was no way she was about to let Bobby-Joe know that.

"In that case, the sooner I get you in this chair and down to Jill's room, the sooner we can _both_ get back to the rest we need." Sam declared as he parked the chair next to her, and secured the brake.

Getting her into the wheelchair would have been comical if it hadn't been such a strain on both of them. Becky-Lou was still so weak from her ordeal that she couldn't get her limbs to co-operate in the process, no matter how hard she tried. She'd already discovered the hard way that her legs couldn't yet support her weight, slender though she was. For his part, Sam was far stronger than she, and under normal circumstances he could have lifted her with no more effort than if she were a feather pillow. Still, the muscles in his arms trembled and protested as he tried to lift her up, and his ankle pounded, and his back ached. It was altogether way more exertion than either of their cold-ravaged bodies should have been engaging in so soon. It took them several attempts, and more than once Sam almost ended up in a heap on the floor on top of her. By the time she was settled in the chair, they didn't know whether to laugh or cry, but had barely the breath for either.

It was lucky that their respective parents hadn't returned to see the tussle, for surely neither would have approved. Sam wondered what was keeping them, a part of him having wished in the midst of it that they _would_ get caught, if only so that he could get some help with his onerous task. He was exhausted at the end of it, and he hated feeling so weak and feeble. Once more, he was leaning heavily on the wheelchair, wondering how much longer he could keep on his feet, especially when one of them was pulsing with pain. All the good his recent nap had done him was now negated, and then some.

Nonetheless, having closed his eyes momentarily and taken a couple of calming breaths, Sam began pushing Becky-Lou to her desired destination.

For a second time, he was barely through the door when a noise distracted him. This time it was the sound of the Imaging Chamber door opening, and Al popped in almost directly in his path, startling him, and making him stumble.

"Are you okay back there, B-J?" Becky-Lou asked – genuinely concerned more for her boyfriend than for the fact that he had almost tipped her onto the floor again.

"I've been better." Sam responded curtly, and truthfully.

"Sam?" Al was surprised to see his friend out of bed, which was clearly where he still needed to be.

Sam merely gave him a shrug. He couldn't converse with the hologram without Becky-Lou thinking he'd flipped. The look he gave his friend bade him explain his sudden appearance, which was obviously motivated by more than a desire to see if he was awake again.

"Guess you're wondering what brought me here?" Al interpreted. Sam's eyebrows confirmed the deduction.

"I told Ziggy you weren't fit to go gallivanting, and I can see I was right." Al began. "But she says you need to get Becky-Lou down to Jill's room. Ziggy insists there is something Becky-Lou needs to hear. Jill's just down the corridor." Al waved his hand to indicate the direction. Sam shot him a look that clearly said, 'where the heck do you _think_ I'm headed?'

'Ah, yes, I can see you're one _step_ ahead of me!" Al observed, keeping pace with the limping leaper.

They soon reached the crowd, which had quietened down somewhat, making the squeak of the wheelchair seem obtrusive. While Sam had been struggling with Becky-Lou, the reporters had finally been allowed into the room to talk to Jill herself, but not for long. Just as the odd group drew level, the journalists were being herded out to trade places with the anxious photographers, who burst in, flash bulbs blazing. The evicted reporters were talking to a couple, who were answering endless questions.

"That's Bill and June Kinmont, Sam." Al supplied.

"Jill's parents." Sam confirmed.

"I know," whispered Becky-Lou - in awe of being so close to the great skier and her family. "Shhh." She waved her hand to bid him be quiet and let her listen.

Bill was just saying, _"…If she wants to get back on those boards again, it'll be okay with us. We don't hold skiing responsible for this accident. It's something that just happened. Bobby and Jerry haven't quit skiing because of it, and we hope no one else does, either."_

Then a reporter asked: _"Mrs. Kinmont, just one question. How can you let your son go east to race when your daughter's just broken her neck? Doesn't it kill you to see him go?"_

"_It doesn't happen to be my decision."_ June Kinmont replied, far more calmly than Sam was sure she was feeling inside. Sam couldn't help but admire the grace and courage with which the pair handled themselves.

"Did you **hear** what they said?" Becky-Lou looked up at Sam, tears springing to her eyes.

"Yes, honey, they said nobody should give up skiing because of Jill's accident." Sam was mindful of Al's original proclamation that his mission on this leap was to prevent Becky-Lou from giving up her future in skiing. He didn't think that Becky-Lou was the sort to quit for fear of having an accident like Jill's, but he was now sure that somehow the two events were inextricably linked. Ziggy had been right about her needing to hear Bill's comment.

"No, not that!" Becky-Lou contradicted impatiently, "They said Jill had broken her _neck_!" She was trembling with emotion. "I have to see her, B-J, I need to see for myself."

She reached down and tried to turn the wheels on the chair, but they were too heavy for her. Sam sighed again. If only she could put as much energy into her career as she did into getting her own way, she'd be a champion for sure.

Sam edged them forwards, and managed to line them up with the doorway. At first, they couldn't see past the flashing of the cameras, but as the photographers were told their five minutes were up, and reluctantly allowed the Nurse to usher them out, Becky-Lou was able to sneak just inside the door, her boyfriend close behind, himself shadowed by a hologram. She took a horrified look at her heroine lying in the Stryker frame like a suckling pig on a spit, and gasped. Surely that couldn't be Jill, beautiful Jill, with tongs coming out of her head – literally _out of her head_ like horns? The traction was holding her immobile, but Jill had heard the gasp, and a strange squeak, and knew that she was not alone following the retreat of the photographers.

"Who's there?" she asked. "Nurse, someone's still here."

"Don't be alarmed, Miss Kinmont." Sam hastily reassured her, wheeling Becky-Lou over next to the head end of the frame, being careful not to get tangled in traction wires. He leaned over into her field of vision. "You probably don't remember us…"

"Bobby-Joe, isn't it?"

"Why, yes."

"Hey! You two, out of here," ordered the Nurse, who thought that her patient had been subjected to far too many visitors already.

"It's okay, " Jill told her. "These are my friends."

Becky-Lou beamed widely at that. The nurse looked skeptical, especially in light of the opening remark the boy had made, but she held her tongue, at least for the moment.

"Is that Becky-Lou with you?" queried Jill, unable to turn her head to look.

"I'm here!" the young lady in question piped up, waving her hand for Jill to see.

Jill put two and two together…

"Was that a wheelchair I heard? Did you fall too?"

"Long story." Sam interjected, pushing Becky-Lou to the end of the 'bed', behind Jill's head. He'd noticed that a small tilted mirror had been fixed above Jill's head, to let her watch a television that had been brought to her room. Sam positioned Becky-Lou so Jill could see her in it. "We got trapped - uh benighted - on the mountain, slight case of hypothermia, but we're gonna be fine."

"Slight case!" Al snorted, but a glare from Sam soon silenced him. They both knew it was a monumental understatement, but that the severity of _their_ suffering was not the issue here.

"I'm glad to hear it." Jill told them, with genuine relief.

"Oh Jill!" was all a tearful Becky-Lou could bring herself to say. "Poor Jill," she whispered almost to herself.

"I know! I look frightful!" Jill countered, and then added, "I can't even wash my hair with all this – this hardware."

Becky-Lou couldn't help but snigger. With all Jill had to contend with, she was worried about her appearance.

"You look better than I expected you would." Sam told her, honestly, and Jill smiled.

Becky-Lou tried for a moment longer to delude herself. Jill wasn't **that** badly hurt. She'd be back on skis like her parents had said; she really didn't have anything more to worry about than how she could wash her hair.

Then Becky-Lou looked again at the fragile figure immobile in the Stryker frame, and knew in her heart that Jill was unlikely to walk, let alone ski, ever again. She sniffed back a sob. Jill was not despondent, and Becky-Lou didn't want to be the one to make her so. She was also a little sad for herself, though. She hadn't really believed this scenario could be possible. She had made a vow not to ski until Jill returned to the piste, and now it was undeniable that this would never happen. Becky-Lou had not planned on retiring so early. She allowed herself a little sigh.

"This set-back won't keep you from taking your place in the team, will it?" Jill broke into her thoughts. Jill meant the hypothermia of course, but Becky-Lou's mind was still on her private declaration.

"I think we've missed the final try-outs." Sam told her, realizing that he was going to have his work cut out to resurrect Becky-Lou's career.

"It doesn't matter anymore." Becky-Lou muttered.

"Oh, but it does!" Jill told her. "I saw your run while I was waiting for mine. You're ace!"

This took Becky-Lou totally by surprise. She had never in a million years expected to hear such high praise from the best skier in the world. She blushed.

"Not compared to you, Jill. I told myself on Sunday that I wouldn't ski again until I can run against you," she blurted out, "You've **always** been the one to try and beat. Not that I ever could!" Becky-Lou was babbling.

Sam finally knew exactly why Becky-Lou had originally quit skiing. She had waited and waited for Jill to recover, as everyone at first expected her to because of the media hype. Then when it finally became clear that Jill would never ski again, Becky-Lou was too inexorably tied to her self imposed promise to take up her own career again.

"I don't think I pose much of a challenge at the moment!" Jill stated without rancor.

Becky-Lou was about to protest, but Jill forestalled her. A part of her believed the propaganda that said she'd ski again. She _wanted_ to believe it. She had always been strong minded and determined and used to getting her own way. Yet she hadn't moved anything below her shoulders in over four days, and she knew deep down that she was in _serious and lasting trouble_. She couldn't bear to think that two sets of young girl's dreams and ambitions had been shattered on that mountain along with her spine.

"Have you heard of my friend A-J?" Jill asked.

"Audra Jo Nicholson, yeah, she..." Sam remembered.

"She contracted polio, yes." Jill wanted to keep it to the facts. "I told her then that I'd ski for the both of us. Looks like - for now at least - you gotta ski for all three of us, Becky-Lou."

"That's quite a tall order." Becky-Lou looked nervous, but excited too.

"You gotta promise me you'll try." Jill looked into her overhead mirror earnestly, holding eye contact with the girl in the wheelchair. Sam looked at her too, willing her to say yes.

"I'd do anything for you, Jill!" Becky-Lou declared, much to Sam's relief. "I just hope I can live up to your expectations."

"Bingo!" put in Al; a squeal from the handlink telling him this was another success for Sam.

"All you have to do is give it your best shot. That's all anyone can ask of you. Oh, and if it's possible, have fun getting there."

"Wise words indeed." Echoed Sam. "On which note, I think we should leave Jill to rest. She's had a demanding day what with the press and all, and we've taken up far too much of her time already. Besides, you need to rest too, Becky-Lou." Sam's foot was crying out for rest too, but it had been worth it to get Becky-Lou back on track. "You're father will be wondering where we've got to. I don't want him thinking we've eloped!"

Both young girls smiled at that, as they said their goodbyes.


	17. Chapter 16

**Chapter Sixteen**

Sam survived his encounter with Mr. Carter surprisingly unscathed. He'd been prepared to get it in the neck, not only for the whole 'nearly costing my daughter her life!' incident, but also for whisking her away from her hospital bed. It had been irresponsible, he knew, and he'd apologized for it sincerely.

Mr. Carter had been remarkably understanding about the whole thing. He knew how headstrong his daughter could be, and didn't blame B-J in the least for anything that had happened. In fact he thanked Sam for bringing his daughter back safely. William had heard about the tinfoil incident in the ambulance – it was the talk of the hospital how a patient who should by rights have been comatose and on the point of death had saved both himself and his girlfriend with an unconventional but brilliant suggestion.

Sam of course, being Sam, was not so lenient on himself. Once he'd seen Becky-Lou comfortably settled back in her bed, and Lillian Parnell had seen _him_ once more tucked into his own, with a warm infusion of sweet tea to coddle him, he'd found himself at last alone with Al.

"You okay, Sam?" asked a concerned hologram.

"My ankle's aching a bit, but I'm fine." Sam assured him, though his tone was morose. He sipped at the warm tea gratefully, and a little dribbled down his chin. Sam set down the cup, surprised that his hand had been trembling quite so noticeably.

"What you mean is your ankle's hurting like hell, if I'm any judge," Al shot back, his keen eye having registered Sam's pained expression as he left Jill's room, and the relief with which he'd stretched out on the bed, "but that's not what I meant Sam. Something's bothering you - emotionally rather than physically. What is it? Out with it."

Sam sighed.

"I was just wondering if William Carter would have been so generous in his forgiveness if he'd realized that first time round, B-J didn't put his precious Becky-Lou in danger. She wouldn't have been up on that mountain if Sam Beckett hadn't blundered in with his big mouth. I'm **supposed** to make things better, Al. Yet twice on this leap, Becky-Lou nearly _died_, when she'd been safe in the original history. Seems to me she was better off _before _I came into her life."

"That's harsh, Sam." Al rejoined.

"But fair." Sam insisted. "I'd have gladly died to save her if the avalanche was the reason I was here, Al. Instead, we both almost froze to death because **I** told her something she wasn't ready to hear. Something only I knew for sure at that stage. Maybe I _shouldn't_ be meddling with the past. Maybe I've just been supremely arrogant these last few years, _assuming_ that I've been a force for good. Surely if I was _really _here to make a difference I should have leapt in earlier and saved Jill, poor kid. Did you see her in there, Al, with holes drilled into her skull like something out of a macabre freak show? She's only 18 and her neck is broken - she'll never walk, never mind ski, again. What a waste of a young life! Maybe…"

"Oh for Pete's sake stop it, Sam!" Al interrupted. "That's enough! We've been through all this before. Ziggy has terabytes of data on people you've helped. Lives you've saved. How can you _possibly_ doubt the good you've done since you began Leaping? Ok, so you both had a close call. Thanks to Dr. Sam Beckett you're both alive and gonna be fine. What's more, you could look at it as kismet - if you _hadn't_ ended up in the hospital here because of _Becky-Lou's_ intensely dramatic nature, she wouldn't have heard what Bill Kinmont said about skiing, and wouldn't have had that pep talk from Jill. Ziggy says both conversations are pivotal in getting Becky-Lou's career back on track."

"Talking of which," Sam was distracted from his melancholic self-doubt by a stray thought, "How could Ziggy possibly know exactly what Bill Kinmont was gonna say - let alone precisely when? It must have been reported in the press, and Ziggy accessed the records I suppose, …" Sam mused, working it out even as he asked.

"Not exactly." Al replied, "She read the book! It was quoted in the biography E G Valens wrote about Jill's life. Page 142 to be precise." Al imparted this piece of trivia in the hopes of breaking Sam's somber mood totally.

"That's right!" Sam's photographic memory flashed into developmental mode again. "I remember now, I read it. They made two films too."

Al seized his opportunity.

"Do you by any chance remember the details of the biopics? Or what you read? I bet you do!"

Sam thought for a moment or two. "Yeah, it's all coming back to me…"  
"Not exactly what you'd call a wasted life?" He cocked his eyebrow at Sam in challenge.

"Point taken." Sam conceded. "Triumph over tragedy as they say. I guess what seems now like the worst day of Jill's life is actually the first step – no pun intended – toward her fulfilling His ultimate plan for her."

"Just as _Becky-Lou's_ negative experience has ended up leading her nearer to a better future?" Al pushed.

"I suppose so." Sam knew when he'd been manipulated, but accepted it graciously. "You're a wise man, Albert Calavicci." He gave his friend a lopsided smile.

Al shrugged in mock modesty. "Wise enough to know I should leave you to rest, kiddo. You've been overdoing it, that's why you're so cranky. You ought to be asleep."

"With you looking out for me, I reckon I can't go _too_ far wrong, can I?"

Al blushed and waved a dismissive hand, but couldn't help feeling a little glow of pleasure that his efforts weren't taken for granted.

"Sleep." Al ordered simply.

"Okay, 'Poppa-bear', I'll be a good boy and take my nap now." Sam's smile widened, and he winked. They'd been here before too, not so long ago, which reminded him of something else, "I'm not sure when I'll leap, Al, so I want you to remember your promise…"

"Trust me, Sam, Scout's honor," Al assured him, sounding slightly wounded at the implication of the reminder, "I may not like it, and there's every chance _you_ won't remember once you leap, but I made a promise, and I **don't** break my promises."

"I didn't mean to imply otherwise, Al. I know you to be a man of honor and integrity…"

"Oh, p-lease - spare my blushes, Sam!" Al sniggered self-consciously. "Now shut up and go to sleep." In order to make sure Sam didn't procrastinate further, Al called up the door to the Imaging Chamber and walked out with a wave.

Sam kept his word and soon settled down to sleep, his body telling him he really did still need the rest.

"Looks like Sam could be leaping real soon." Al announced as he stepped back into Project Headquarters.

"Ooooh, maybe we can – like - spend some quality time together then, lover!" Tina whispered in his ear as he went by her workstation.

"Sorry, hon, I have another trip to make." Al stated, matter-of-factly.

Tina huffed and turned her back on him, "You're going to see **her** again, aren't you?" she accused under her breath.

"I have to honor a promise to Sam." Was all Al would say.

"Like, whatever." Tina flounced, disbelievingly. "Well, if you'd rather spend your downtime with another woman, maybe I'll have me a little fun of my own." Tina sidled up to Gushie, draped one arm over his shoulder and with the other walked her fingers up his chest. "How about it, handsome?" she made sure that though her voice was low, Al would catch every word. Her hand had now reached Gushie's face, and she turned it by the chin so that he couldn't avoid looking her in the eyes. "Wanna show a girl a good time?" She winked at him, and licked her lips seductively.

Gushie blushed crimson and stepped back out her clutches, though with some regret. "I'm very sorry, Tina. Any other time, I'd be honored to oblige you, but I too need to take a trip, with the Admiral's permission. I have a – a personal matter to attend to." He cast his eyes downward, a look of profound sadness on his face.

"Permission granted." Al replied gruffly. He neither knew nor cared what Gushie needed to do; he was just pleased that Tina's little ploy had fallen flat. He knew she was just trying to make him jealous, but why did she have to pick Mr. Halitosis to do it with? On the one hand, Al was glad that she wasn't suggesting two-timing him with one of the good looking young studs on the payroll, like some of the military guys in security - one of the guys who really _did_ stand a chance of turning a young girl's head permanently. On the other hand, it was a bit of an insult for her to suggest that Gushie - of all people - could be a serious love rival to the Admiral of Amour.

Before Tina could make things even more uncomfortable, Al beat a hasty, though dignified retreat, instructing Ziggy to inform him if Sam either leaped or needed his help.

**Friday morning**

In the wake of their unwise expedition, both Sam and Becky-Lou had followed medical advice and done nothing even remotely strenuous throughout Thursday evening, the night, and the following morning. Consequently, when the doctor did his mid-morning rounds on Friday, he declared both patients fit enough to be discharged, much to the immense relief of their respective parents, and a concerned Coach Montgomery.

Hank drove them back to the Lodge to collect their things. William and Lillian were anxious to get their offspring home to Beersheba Springs as soon as possible, where they could fuss over the teenagers and make sure they recuperated thoroughly.

Though not on the scale of Jill's roomful of good wishes, they had received cards and flowers and messages of support from their teammates whilst in the hospital, but Tammy and the boys had not been allowed to visit in the early stages, and since the competition was over, they had all flown back home already. So had all but a handful of competitors from the other teams.

Sam was going through the motions, keeping up the pretence of being B-J, but he really didn't know what more he was expected to do. Becky-Lou had confessed that she'd vowed to refrain from skiing until Jill was back in competition, which explained why she had originally hung up her skis forever. This time round, she had heard Bill Kinmont's comments, and Jill herself had urged Becky-Lou to fulfill her potential. Surely this was the crossroads that had needed navigating, and now she was on the right road? Which meant that Sam's work here was finished and he ought to be leaping out. Yet he felt no hint of the tingle that warned him his departure was imminent.

His clue came when they brought out their skis to load them on the roof rack of Hank's station wagon. Becky-Lou was looking at hers with a strange faraway expression in her eyes.

"Penny for them?" Sam intruded on her reverie, putting a gentle hand on her shoulder.

Becky-Lou gave a little shrug, as if she were not sure herself where her thoughts were taking her. She looked up at the mountain, and then lowered her eyes to stare once again at her skis.

At that precise moment, Al entered the scene, centre stage.

"What's up, Sam?" he asked, without preamble. "Ziggy says the odds of Becky-Lou skiing again are slipping back down."

Sam frowned and gave a little shake of his head to indicate that he had no idea what was going wrong.

William Carter reached out to take his daughter's skis and stow them away. Becky-Lou held on to them grimly, but her expression was still unfathomable. She chewed her lower lip.

Sam took a stab in the dark, hoping that if he wasn't right, at least he'd get a clue as to the correct diagnosis from the form of her denial.

"Crisis of confidence?" he asked her, with the empathic perspective of one who had recently been there himself.

"You could say that." She answered softly, apologetically.

"Come on, you two, time to go home." Urged Mrs. Parnell. "Maybe if you're both feeling stronger tomorrow, we could manage a celebratory trip to the Opry. What d'you say, Will?"

"Good idea!" Mr. Carter concurred. They expected an enthusiastic reaction from their children, but it was as if they hadn't spoken.

"Are you worried you'll get hurt like Jill?" Sam didn't think this was the problem, but he wanted Becky-Lou to tell him for herself.

"Oh no, it's not that!" she reassured him, "I just don't think I'm up to it."  
"Of course not, princess." Her father put in. "You need time to convalesce. You know how delicate you are."

"I don't think that's what Becky-Lou meant, sir." Sam offered and she nodded in agreement. Sam had guessed correctly. Becky-Lou was so scared of disappointing Jill that she was contemplating ducking out. Better to quit now and have people wonder if she might have won, than to go out and fail spectacularly and ultimately let down the person she wanted so much to impress.

"Like falling off a horse, Sam." Commented Al, and his friend knew exactly what he was suggesting.

"Come on!" ignoring the confused and concerned expressions of the 'adults', and their protests, Sam grabbed Becky-Lou's wrist with one hand, and her poles with the other, and led her to the nearest ski lift.

Hank recognized what was going on, and calmed the anxious parents with the assurance that he believed Bobby-Joe knew what he was doing. He bade them take up a position where they could watch what happened next, and to trust that things would work out for the best, before seeking out his own vantage point.

Al had himself re-centered on Sam.

Minutes later, the pair had reached the start of one of the practice courses, and Sam had helped Becky-Lou to strap on her skis. He had not taken B-J's with him, not wanting to repeat the chaotic descent of his first arrival, and using his damaged ankle as the perfect excuse to 'sit this one out'.

Becky-Lou stood uncertainly at the gate, poking at the snow with her poles and fidgeting her feet. Sam stood behind her and massaged her shoulders.

"It's no good, B-J, I can't!" she spoke tremulously. "What if I'm not good enough?"

"Sure you can. I believe in you, Becky-Lou; you **can** do it. I know you can."

Still she hesitated.

"There's nobody but us here, honey. Just go for it! What've you got to lose?" Sam pressed. "If you fall flat on your face – or on your cute little tushi – (Al giggled, and Becky-Lou blushed) we can laugh it off and go home, no harm done. You know it's Bobby-Joe and Becky-Lou together forever, no matter what, but you owe it to yourself to try. How about it, hon?" Sam felt that B-J was helping him with his wording again.

She looked into his eyes, into his earnest face, and she saw the trust and faith he was placing in her. She knew in her heart that B-J would stand by her and support her, no matter what her ultimate decision, but she didn't want to let him down either. She bit her lip again, and then nodded.

"That's my girl!" Sam encouraged. "Deep breath now…"

She did as she was bid, and was about to set off, when suddenly she dug her poles in and stopped.

"Wait!" she said, grabbing Sam by the sleeve.

"What's wrong, honey? Its okay, you'll be fine. Do it for Jill." Sam buoyed her up.

"I know, and I want to. I'm not backing out again." Becky-Lou assured him. "It's just that you can't ski down with me…"

"You don't need me to hold your hand!" teased Sam gently.

"No, no, I didn't mean that, silly." Becky-Lou gave him a playful punch.

Sam gave her a puzzled look. This girl was a mystery wrapped in an enigma.

"I want you to go back down first," Sam started to protest, but she hushed him, "don't worry, I won't chicken out I promise. I just want you to be down there to watch me. I need you to tell me what you think of my run – but you **have** to tell the truth, good or bad - deal?"

"Deal." Agreed Sam, and even shook her hand to make it official. She giggled.

"Off with you then!" she ordered, "I can't stand up here all day waiting for you!"

Sam gave an exaggerated bow of acquiescence, and headed back for the ski lift as fast as his still aching ankle would allow. Once down, he got himself into position to have the best view of the maximum length of her course, which happened to be right next to Coach Hank Montgomery, who had already worked out the optimum location.

He was only just ready as she began her descent, and the two men watched in silence as she sliced her way down the slope.

Sam concentrated on her every move, and to his untrained eye, it was a fantastic display of skill and dexterity. He didn't know the names of the various maneuvers she was making, he had no idea if her technique was flawless, or merely average, but on a personal level, with the perspective of a rank amateur, he was as impressed as hell. The look of exhilaration on her face as she shot past them was clear even behind her goggles. She was in her element. It didn't take an expert to see that this was what she was born to do.

Once she'd reached the finish line, Hank lent Sam a supporting arm as he hobbled after her. They both approached her, seeing her expression turn to one of nervousness. She bit her bottom lip anxiously.

"Well," she asked hesitantly when they reached her side, "what's the verdict?"

Sam embraced her enthusiastically and smiled broadly, "You were great, Becky-Lou. Sheer magic!"

She blushed, but shook her head in denial. "You always say that, B-J!" and she gave him another playful slap on the arm.

"Only because it's true!" Sam argued, rubbing his arm.

"You always say that too!" Becky-Lou countered.

"Well then, we'd better ask the expert. What do you reckon, Coach?"

Sam turned to Hank, hoping for all he was worth that the response would be favorable.

Hank put a hand to his chin, tilted his head on one side and looked thoughtful.

Both Sam and Becky-Lou waited with their hearts in their mouths.

For an interminable moment, Hank kept them on tenterhooks, his face implacable.

Then a little twinkle crept into the corner of his eye, and he pronounced

"That was the most outstanding run I have _ever_ seen! Terrific technique, easy style, smooth and sweet and graceful, simply the best run I've ever witnessed."

Sam let out a breath of relief.

Becky-Lou bobbed up and down with excitement. Coach Montgomery was not known to flatter. He was normally almost grudging in his praise. So this outpouring of commendation was not only unprecedented, it was beyond credulity.

"Really? Truly?" she couldn't believe Hank was talking about her, "That was my best run?"

"That isn't what I said, precisely" corrected Hank, but added as her face fell, "I said **the** best run, period."

Becky-Lou looked confused, unsure what the Coach was getting at. "Not just _your_ best run." He clarified. "That was a championship run, Becky-Lou Carter. Pure Gold."

Sam thought for a moment that she was going to faint with shock, she gasped, and swayed, and he moved to catch her. Then she let out a squeal of delight.

"Shame you've missed your spot for this year," Hank continued, "but with four more years to hone your skills still further, you'll have the competition licked for sure."

Al, who had been observing subtly from the sidelines, pressed a couple of buttons on his hand link, then confirmed Hank's assessment with a simple thumbs up. Nothing more was needed.

"Do you guys _really_ think I've got what it takes to be a winner?" Becky-Lou pressed.

Sam hedged his bets ever so slightly. He didn't believe in being too dogmatic.

"Trust me honey, I guarantee you're gonna take Gold in the '60 Olympics, or my name's not Bobby Joe Parnell."

"Oh, B-J, you're something else, you really are!" Becky-Lou stood on tiptoe and reached up to cup his face with both hands, tilting it down so that she could reach to plant a passionate kiss on his lips.

"I'd go along with that, SAM." Teased Al, as his friend Leaped…


	18. Epilogue

** Epilogue  
**

The blue haze transported him through time, as it always did, and for a brief moment during transit he was simply himself again. B-J was gone, and only Sam remained – whoever "Sam" really was. He thought it had been Dr Who's observation that 'a Man is the sum of his memories…' if that was indeed the case, then Dr Samuel John Beckett – Scholar of six doctorates and seven degrees and time-traveler extraordinaire – didn't amount to very much.

Already, his memory was Swiss-cheesing again and hard won recollections were fading away, despite his desperate attempts to hold on to them.

Yet Sam refused to wallow in self-pity, even if given the chance. That was not his nature. In any case, he had no more time for looking backward. He began looking forward – to discover who he would become in this latest Leap, where and when he was 'landing' and, most importantly, why…

…The vast outdoors of Alta were now replaced by a vast indoors. Sam had Leaped in to a huge bedroom that could only be described as opulent. The walls were papered in Regency stripes. The carpet was a deep piled Axminster in a rich, almost regal, shade of purple. The drapes were in matching velvet, and tied back with deep golden silk cords.

Sam was standing by a four-poster bed, curtained all around in finest filigree lace, with silk sheets and a pale lilac floral quilt. Atop the bed rested a brand new suitcase and a battered old brocade carpetbag that looked capacious enough to hold Mary Poppins' hat-stand.

Evidently, his new host was packing – or unpacking – it was impossible to be sure which at this stage. He was holding a folded white cotton garment. He shook it out to reveal a pair of old-fashioned ladies' knickers, which he could not have dropped quicker had they been ablaze. He looked down at himself and made a mental amendment: his 'hostess' was packing.

'At least she wears sensible shoes.' He noted with relief – his hatred of high heels unabated. Sam was wearing a pair of sturdy, squarish lace-up brown leather brogues, with stout heels no more than one inch thick. Above these the legs were encased in something in excess of forty denier tights – not quite surgical stockings, but the accent was definitely on support rather than glamour. The calf-length skirt consisted of two-inch wide pleats of herringbone tweed in a tasteful shade of deep russet. The upper body bore a slightly paler twin-set comprising V-neck jumper and cardigan in Trevira.

The figure itself was short and dumpy. The hands were freckled with age and the third finger; left hand displayed a well-worn gold wedding band.

At this point, Sam noticed an US passport protruding from an outer pocket of the carpetbag, which he snatched up eagerly. Once opened it revealed a head-and-shoulders photograph. Sam studied the round face, subtly made up, silver-grey hair lightly permed, crow's feet etched deeply round blue-grey smiling eyes.

'And who might we be, my dear?' he asked himself as he lowered his eyes to the listed personal details:

NAME: Mary Theresa Bridget McGillicuddy (nee O'Shea)

D.O.B: July 14 1932

PLACE OF BIRTH: Clonakilty, County Cork, Republic of Ireland

NATIONALITY: Citizen of the United States of America

MARITAL STATUS: Widow

OCCUPATION: Nanny/Housekeeper

Sam let the document slip through his fingers. Turning his attention to the fitted wardrobe that filled the wall at the foot of the bed, he faced the full-length mirror as he inevitably did. Shrugging his shoulders, Sam reflected with mild amusement:

'Dear God, now I'm Mrs. Doubtfire!'


	19. Writer's notes

Writer's Notes:

"High Hopes" is a _Quantum Leap_ fan-fiction novella, and therefore owes everything to the brilliant TV series which inspired it, to Don Bellisario who created it, and to Scott Bakula and Dean Stockwell who brought it to life with such skill and warmth and character.

It is respectfully dedicated to Jill Kinmont Boothe, the subject of the 'kiss with history' within the story, and the woman who has been my role model throughout my life.

I highly recommend the biography of her life "A Long Way Up" by E. G. Valens, and the two biopics where she is played by Marilyn Hassett, called in England "A Window to the Sky" and "The Other Side of the Mountain". I think the US releases had different names. Warning, they are three hanky weepie films!

This story is the sequel to my first work "Terror Firma

"High Hopes" has been over ten years in the writing, partly because -as the notes at the start of "Terror Firma" show - I was asked by the American publishers to put it on hold and work up my "British" story, and partly because it has taken me that long to research such things as the location for the train scene. City Place station wasn't even built when I started, so no wonder I couldn't find it!

The impetus to finish this story after so long was the knowledge that I would be meeting Dean Stockwell himself! On May 1st 2005 I presented him with a copy of "High Hopes" which I had signed for him, and got him to autograph a copy for me!

It is followed by "Run for their Lives" - finished but not yet published -and "Snake in the Grass" still in progress and concludes in a story so much in its infancy that it has little more than an outline and the provisional title "M.E. myself and Sam". Though each of these stories - all set _before_ the final television episode "Mirror Image"- can be read as a stand-alone, there are threads that are carried across the whole group.

Trivia: There is a flashback scene near the end, which explains how Sam got the white streak in his hair, and also possibly a comment he made to Buddy Wright as Gloria.

Writing _Quantum Leap _fan-fiction is not only my hobby - it is my passion.

It is through my involvement with Al's place, and the associated site "The Virtual Seasons" that I have found my best friends, my confidence as a writer and as an individual, and most of the good things in my life.

Also, as you can read in the 'Guest-vision' slot, researching "Run for their Lives" led to the discovery of what ailed my father in law, and a renewal of my faith.

I have had 3 of my stories aired so far at the Virtual Seasons, (A wonderful site which has continued the Leaps of Dr Sam Beckett through ongoing 'virtual' seasons', as if the series had never been cancelled, and is currently airing its sixth season, making 11 in all with the 5 televised seasons.) and a fourth that was co-written with my best friend Sue aired recently on March 31st 2005.

"Where the Buck Stops"

"Leap to the Rescue" (in three parts)

"Skin Deep" (in two parts)

and:

"Hair of the Dog" (with Sue Johnson)

In addition, I take part in two Quantum Leap Role Play games online, one where I play Verbena Beeks, and the other where I have a number of diverse roles ranging from a character called Robert Cheney (who looks like George Clooney); his wife Emma (Roxann Dawson) and a torture master at the Evil Leaper project called Jacob York (Anthony Montgomery) to the enigmatic Bartender Al himself! (played jointly with a colleague).


End file.
